Measurements

In the mirrors that were you palms

that can’t hold, plates that hold portions only

but not flesh,

you measure.

Half a gram of lump-in-throat,

two tablespoons of cold fear,

three ounces of salt water,

squeezed from ducts

in silent muffles.

There was a face pressed into blankets

someplace where you forgot to measure for a while:

A free fall

frantic with

frozen time

layering

that,

those measures,

old stories, your dated fables, onto

moments in flight.

Rations for the war,

just in case.

You place things into a satchel, neatly.

Make note of time, strapped to a wrist:

a reminder

to not forget

so you’ll not be

lost in the abyss.

Because bound and measured

there is no room for panic

or fear,

not in this small room you keep;

the walls skimmed,

skinned

small etchings cleaned away.

And the breath you blow

rich with words and small confusion

might raise your chest,

a moment of reprieve,

if it were not bound by yesterday’s wartime

you choose and box and keep.

(Image: Jason Holley)