The Body Knows Before the Mind Does

Sole against hardwood—

the shock travels up my shin

before I'm awake enough to name it.

Six AM. The radiator ticks.

I'm supposed to be someone

who has a bed frame,

someone whose neighbor

doesn't knock at eight

because they're already gone.

The dust under the radiator

has a geography I don't know.

How long has it lived there?

The floor is colder than it should be.

My toes curl.

I should move.

But my body knows something

my mind hasn't caught up to yet—

that standing up means admitting

the day,

means answering the knock,

means pretending I have somewhere

to be.