(From The Birth of Numbers)
by Gil Ludere
This poem has been reprinted for our Editors’ Picks Summer 2026 Edition.
It was originally published in the Summer 2025 Edition of confetti.
They feared her,
this woman made of nothing,
this dot on the dusty tablet
between two ciphers of barley and debt.
She is not absence.
She held a place
like silence between drumbeats
or graves between kings.
She is the ontology of the void.
She is yearning.
Call her śūnya,
call her ghost,
she arrives last and makes sense of all.
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