Mathematics a poem by Bianca Bowers   It is August sixteenth, and I am fuller than I wish to be Winter has crept inside me with all the stealth of a spy   I let my forty fifth birthday pass, three days ago, without so much as a wink  Like a crowd of strangers, I spurned its presence, kept my eyes on the floor    The full moon coincided with it all I shed blood, reflecting moreover on that inconvenient hourglass that will soon dry up  along with any superficial beauty I might have possessed once  upon a summer ago   But as I write this pathetic account  of a woman…