Peter Leight has published poems in Paris Review, AGNI, FIELD, Beloit Poetry Review, Raritan, Matter, and other magazines.
shifting my weight in the lateral or sagittal direction to keep from drifting to the side. I’m feeling a little shaky, which is often what balance is like. Sometimes I close my eyes and breathe deeply, first one way then the other like a kind of stereo, letting my head drop down and lifting it up. Leaning both ways like a canoeist—when you turn to the side the other side starts turning, I’m not sure what the technical term is. I mean there are attractions on both sides, not one or the other, like a herringbone. We often move one way in order to avoid moving another, holding our hands together and pulling them apart, as if alternating between attachment and inattention. There are also times when there’s too much on one side and not enough on the other—we usually end up with less of what we need more of. When we’re together you’re on one side while I’m on the other, you don’t have to warn me beforehand. People need to be together when they’re apart, and when they’re together they start moving away from each other—there isn’t a statement with a balance at the end you don’t bother to check anymore because it’s always been right before.