The Body Knows

The room tilted this afternoon

and brought the memory back soon—

that first time drunk, the walls spun,

my body feeling all undone.

My friend's hand on my shoulder,

her face growing older

with worry, as I swallowed

something sweet that followed.

The taste coated my tongue,

left me dizzy and young,

unsteady, the world all wrong,

her hand keeping me strong.

I remember that steadiness,

her grip a kind of readiness

to hold me, to keep me here,

to make it all less severe.

Years later, just dizzy with hunger,

and my body makes me wonder

if this is that old spinning,

that loss of beginning.

The body remembers everything—

vertigo, and the offering

of her hand, her steady ground,

the way she held me safe and sound.

She's gone now, long ago,

but the body still seems to know

that spinning means I need

someone to anchor me indeed.