Now you are a wind
across the hairline
balance of my scale.
I tare again; still
you draft past me.
The third decimal place
shudders under your weight.
I would never tolerate
uncertainty, the plus
or minus like apology,
a fraying at the edge
of measurement.
I used to want your signal
off my radar. Now
I’m savoring disturbance:
your Richter in my teeth,
the surge of current
in my elbow’s circuitry.
The way I ran in socks
across the carpet, thrilled
with fright but powerless
to keep from reaching
up once more to catch
the doorknob’s brass kiss.

-Deirdre Lockwood