Here I stand, holding in my outstretched
hand this delicate balance, surrounded by
a constellation of meaningful objects,
symbols begging for an easy moral:
gold coins and pearls, a mirror, blue cloth,
just over my shoulder a painting of Christ’s
judgment lit up by a shock of light
through the window. But my attention
rests on the balance, which holds nothing
but air. Perhaps I’ve finished weighing
my life’s valuables, perhaps I will do so
in a moment. Even I do not know.
For now I have achieved perfect equipoise,
the fulcrum at rest, the beam
a horizontal axis, the two plates hanging
in true from parallel threads.
An exquisite stillness presides over the scene.
Then I watch as the balance in my hand
swells into a human head, its fulcrum
the brain, those threads like tiny nerves
leading to the inner ears. And Christ,
from the painting above, slowly reaches
over my shoulder and drops a tumor,
like a brilliant pearl, onto the measuring plate
at my left, and the world begins to spin.
