Weight
by Megan Thoma
She fed him coins in his sleep. Every night for years.
Dimes.
A good Catholic, open mouth snorer. They slid easily down his tongue.
2.3 grams each. Collected at his feet. Cobbled his soles
then grew from hills to silver mountains.
She did not think his chest a well.
Did not wish to cast him, to armor his organs.
No heart toll.
No love tax.
She was not a poet,
found no beauty in the way his hips
jingled when they made love.
It was a necessity. The only way she knew to make a man stay.
Love. What worthless currency.
Unable to match the simple promise kept by the circumference of the esophagus
and the weight of dimes.
Dimes.
A good Catholic, open mouth snorer. They slid easily down his tongue.
2.3 grams each. Collected at his feet. Cobbled his soles
then grew from hills to silver mountains.
She did not think his chest a well.
Did not wish to cast him, to armor his organs.
No heart toll.
No love tax.
She was not a poet,
found no beauty in the way his hips
jingled when they made love.
It was a necessity. The only way she knew to make a man stay.
Love. What worthless currency.
Unable to match the simple promise kept by the circumference of the esophagus
and the weight of dimes.
Megan Thoma is a writer and teacher living in Providence, RI. She is the reigning NorthBeast Slam Champ and has work published in Little White Poetry Journal, decomP, The Legendary, and McSweeney’s Internet Tendency. Her students don’t believe teachers are real human beings that “drive cars or have dance parties in their basements.” She does both these things. She is very, very real.