The Spine Remembers

I reached for something on the floor

and my spine spoke back—

the body keeping score

of all the years I didn't know

I owed it anything.

The back remembers.

Every bend, every weight,

every morning I woke and didn't stretch.

Now I move around the pain,

careful, protective,

like I'm learning a new way to inhabit this frame.

In the dark kitchen window,

my reflection shows a stranger—

shoulders pulled forward,

spine curved like a question,

like I'm sorry for this shape,

for this aging,

for letting the body do what bodies do.

The spine keeps its secrets in vertebrae,

small bones that know my history.

I'm learning to listen.

I'm learning to slow down.

I'm learning that getting old

is a kind of betrayal

the body commits against itself.