The Beam

The pharmacist has a face like a thumb,

rubbing alcohol on my arm while I stand

on the heavy platform in the corner.

I had to slide the little weights myself,

feeling the notched metal bar

clunk against the top of the frame.

The crowd by the greeting cards

could see the back of my neck go red.

It swayed for a long time,

teetering between too much and not enough,

before settling on a hard, cold fact.

I’ve been hiding in these heavy knits,

believing the lie of the fabric,

but the iron doesn't care about my mood.

It just measures the pull of the earth.