The Body Knows First

My leg bent before I sat.

Not thought. Not choice.

Just the knee knowing

what was coming—

the way a hand flinches

before the match strikes,

the way skin remembers

every careless moment

and learns to brace.

I didn't ask it to prepare.

No message down the spine

saying: ready yourself,

the hurt is on its way.

But the body keeps score.

The body doesn't forget

what we do to it in anger,

in haste,

in ordinary cruelty

we call living.

So it adjusts early now.

My knee bends

before I tell it to sit.

Anticipates.

Remembers.

Knows the shape of pain

before it arrives.

Smart joint.

Honest joint.

It can't lie the way I lie—

can't pretend I'm fine

when I'm not fine,

can't ignore the small damages

that add up like debts

we'll have to pay in full.

The body's a witness.

It testifies against us

in its own small language.

And mine is saying:

you were careless.

And I remember.

And I'm ready.