the weight

she no longer
counted her poems,
numbering them
on the far
right corner
with a black pen.
instead, she
weighed them
on a scale,
stacking the pages
and pages of
poetry like berries,
like meat,
like fish from
the market. and in
this way, she
measured out her
love, her memories
her losses
and years. that
relationship, she'd
say was two
pounds worth
of writing, or
that death, or parent
still gaining,
another page or
two, add more.