I am trying to avoid aching because of a moment’s pleasure.
You do not have my attention.
I googled the definition of ‘enraptured’ feeling the word fall out of my mouth at a customer.
It is precisely how I do not feel.
I fucked the left side of my lower thoracic and upper lumber,
cracking my back last night.
I began cracking joints around age eleven.
I was staying with friends, my parents on tour, I went to a day of eighth grade with my mom’s friend’s daughter. I do not recall why I had the day off from school.
We rolled our heads and wrists in circles: drama class.
The audible crunching yearned for a more substantial release.
I awoke to my smaller bones.
In the night I was completely sober, I finished the last page in the Octavia Butler novel,
I drank the last sip of rooibus.
You might read me as an expert and it is true,
a bedtime ritual has never been more fine-tuned and yet.
Twisting to the left I thought for sure
I would ripple like a deck in a seasoned dealer’s hands,
but it was to the right that I shifted back into place.
I woke up aching because of that pleasure.
Infuriating and familiar inflamed vertebral tissue
adjacent to your pictures, your ever present community.
All day I am awake to my petty bones, asking
a higher conscience to shake them loose.