Standing, I begin
with my height, then number
the colours I have been
painted. My shadow lies

several steps ahead of me,
but the difference is only potential;
like the future waiting in past tense,
it can’t be put in figures,

so I turn to the gentle spirals
embedded in my fingerprints,
calculate their depth, their friction,
how long they will hold on.

Before long, I sit
cross-ankled, counting scrapes and
splinters from long ago,
start to rise, pause to

guess my weight in petals
like a game:
who loves me, who
loves me not.

measuring tape (sparrowsalvageo)

Advertisements