The Question Mark

I saw myself hunched on a Zoom call,

the camera catching the exact curve

of my spine—a question mark

wearing a button-down.

My shadow on the wall that night

was the same shape.

Even alone I'm doing it,

pulling my shoulders up

toward my ears like I'm cold

or like the world might see me better

if I make myself smaller.

A colleague said "you always look tense"

and I thought about all the hours

I've spent folding myself down,

making myself fit in chairs

that weren't made for people

who don't know how to sit still.

My mother sat like that too.

I watched her do it at the kitchen table,

always ready to stand,

never quite landing.

Now I'm doing it without thinking.

Now I'm teaching it to my body

the way bodies learn things—

not through intention but through

the small repeated pressures

of not quite belonging.