Borrowed Spine

That box of tax returns,

high on the top shelf

in the pantry, smelled faintly

of dust and old paper.

I stretched,

arm reaching, fingers

hooking the edge. And then the shift.

The grunt, low in my throat,

the exact curve

of my lower back,

the way the elbow bent

just so, a hinge

creaking under pressure. It wasn't me,

not really. It was him.

The ghost of his posture,

his small, familiar struggle

to just

reach. I froze,

half-bent,

a sudden stranger

in my own skin,

still holding on.