What Holds You

I stand up

and something separates

down the middle of my back,

a small pop

that sounds like permission

to feel what's been there

all day long.

The ache spreads.

It's not sharp—

it's the slow recognition

of nine hours

compressed into a vertebra,

into the small of my back,

into the specific point

where I'm held together

and also

where I'm about to come apart.

I roll my shoulders.

The pain stays.

This is what holds me up,

this narrow column,

this thing I never think about

until I can't

stop thinking about it,

until I'm hyperaware

of the weight

of my own head,

my own arms,

my own gravity.

I stretch.

It doesn't help.

The office is closing.

People are leaving.

I'm still here,

learning what it costs

to sit still,

to hold a position,

to pretend that the body

isn't keeping score.