The size of how much I hate
is measurable only by
using shark teeth for the base unit:

I hate you five shark teeth, which is to say
not much.  I hate that fifty shark teeth,
a pretty fair amount.  Over a hundred
shark teeth and growing, that’s
a healthy hate indeed.

What size shark,
you ask.
I lessen my hate for you
by one tooth.

Good question,
I say.  Mako.
And why not great white you ask?
I don’t want the base unit
to be that big.  I hate something
one shark tooth it’s really
not much.  Inconsequential,
really.

I didn’t ask,
you say.

Then you ask,
How do you measure love?
Is that just no shark teeth?

Ah,
I say,
that fifth shark tooth
back in my head,
no.  I don’t think
you can catch love in a nautical
metaphor.  It’s
more atmospheric.
Maybe it’s clouds or breezes.

I haven’t thought much about it,
I say.  I should.
But it’s not just no shark teeth,
I say — I promise.

A mako shark must have just lost
all the 30,000 teeth
allotted for his lifetime
all at once,

for here they are
in my hands,
piled high in my arms,
and I am bleeding.