Margin of Error

Sunday. New apartment. Curtains.

I measured the window twice, wrote it down,

cut the rod, held it up—

an inch too short.

Measured again. Different number.

Then a third time: different again.

At some point I sat down on the floor

with the tape extended all the way across the room,

the metal tab clicking against the baseboard

in the draft from the window I was trying to cover,

and I just left it there.

It takes a certain kind of afternoon

to teach you that precision

is not the same as accuracy.

That you can be very careful

and still be wrong.

The tape snapped back when I finally let go.

Left a line across my palm,

thin and red, like a correction.

Like the room saying: here.

Start here.