after “Scale” by Helen Mort
I measure myself against
the thunderstorm that comes unannounced—
the weight of its howls, the air
locked inside the cage of a black cloud,
against my own held breath,
or the trophy you won for your songs.
I measure myself in
your whispers falling
like condensation
that stays on dutiful
edges of forgotten coffee mugs,
nervous, as if fingerprints
locked inside of droplets
could come alive.
I measure myself against
sandcastles—weightless
as they merge into pleated waves.
My weight is
30 pounds more than Laika,
your dog, just before she died
when she was old and fat—
ten pounds less than the maple in our front yard,
its weight calculated by multiplying the volume
of its presence by the density of its wood.
My weight can also be measured
in bags of rice, flour, ragi—enough
pulses for a satsang gathering
at our own upcoming funerals.
But some days it feels heavier
than this house, a water-logged
presence like the street wrapped
around Maple enclave.
I am the curved intersection
warping itself, a kingsnake
doubled up around a cave.
