What the Body Does When It Thinks It's Alone

The chair is one I never use. There's a reason

for that, probably. But on the second day

of the fever I found myself in it —

cross-legged, spine gone soft,

one hand flat against my own chest

like I was checking for something.

The television was off. The screen

held a shape I had to look at twice

before I knew it was mine — curved inward,

chin down, one bare foot hooked

under the opposite knee, the whole body

arranged into a posture

I had not arranged.

That's the part I keep returning to.

Not the fever, not the room

smelling of cold tea and whatever I'd sweated through.

But that my body had already decided

to make itself small

without asking.

The posture of someone waiting.

Or hiding from a room

that's already empty.

I sat there a long time after I noticed.

Trying to decide if I should straighten.

Not straightening.