scales 

there was a scales
in the upstairs bathroom
of the aunt's house

the bathroom with
the pink tile & 
the monogrammed towels 
all in a row
F, J, M

i went up there
first out of haunting
curiosity 

open all medicine 
cabinets if you have
the chance

the scale was one
of those old manual 
ones with the dial 
that sprung alive
with my weight

i don't remember 
how heavy i was but

i remember being startled
by the concrete evidence
of my body

i blame gravity

afterwards they cropped
up other places

mischievous & greedy 

making numbers of me

on the winding gravel
path in the park

in the shower

at the window
of my bedroom where 
a books lay on
the floor peeled open 
like clementines

i'd feel the texture
beneath my toes
the bumpy surface
of the weighing device

this has nothing
to do with stomachs
or fat 

this has to do with 
the steady increase
of gravity since we were
children 

have you noticed it?

how the air 
is getting viscous 
like butter on
the counter

my father gives in

he keeps a scale
in my parent's bedroom

checks himself every morning

measures his soul by
the notches of his
belt loops

i know that they're 
contagious & that it's only
a matter of time
before the whole floor
of the house is scales

they emerge on
walls & beside light
fixtures

beneath the pillow

how much do you weigh
on a day like today 
when the earth is pulling
us in so tight?

i can feel the tides
aching--

the scales washing up
on the shore like 
horseshoe crabs

i peel them off the floor

hurling each out the
window into 
the front lawn 

where my father runs them
over with the lawn mower

this isn't about
the anorexia 

this isn't about the 
violin shape of
my old torso 

this is about the 
becoming of numbers

we're both like this
my father & i

& the button-up shirts
of hist that i'll 
never fit in

prone to quantities

afflictions of measurement

while he sleeps
i sometimes sneak 
into his room & tear

all the number out
of the scale

sucking them out like
venom spat onto the carpet

next with the alarm clock

whose angry face
stares through the walls
of the house

each number hot
as summer asphalt
as i pluck them out

i sneak back into
my room & sleep with
the light on

weigh myself unintentionally 

the scale laughing 
as big as the whole room

i'm sleeping
on the floor of
the pink bathroom 

using the aunt's hand towels
for blankets

if i don't
check the number

i can be as dense 
enough to make my own
gravities 

as light as the dried
clementine skin
on the counter 

the books blown open
on the floor of my bedroom 

oh number us, please