The Reading

I step on the scale in the morning light

and watch my toes disappear below

the curve of my own weight. The sight

of them gone, hidden. I don't know

how long it's been—six months? More?

The number glows: 247. My jeans won't close.

I bought bigger ones before I saw

this number. Before I looked. Now here it shows:

every choice I made while eating

in the dark, every standing meal,

every midnight fridge-seeking, repeating

the same motion until it became real.

My toes are still there somewhere.

Still mine. Still connected. Still

part of this body I'm not looking at fair

and square. But the scale will tell

me anyway. 247.

The truth in numbers. The reason my jeans

won't zip. The reason I'm not in heaven

anymore, if I ever was.