rescuer

in my childhood bedroom falling asleep, 

listening to the freight train

of my life’s dark and quiet rumblings,

i notice the train hasn’t stopped

for a while. i’m trapped.

my 12 year old brows furrow:

i wonder what my spine

is trying to tell me by twisting.

i roll over, curl legs to chest

hip pushing brace downward, 

comfortable confinement.

twisting offers relief, moments of fresh air,

respite from contorting myself in ballet,

moments when health becomes 

more important than being perfect.

yet activities continue with

two hour daily commute: 

religious schooling to rehearsals to piano

lessons to music theory to concerts.

constantly moving wears me down

i hold onto the brace for dear life.

perhaps this curve is my rescuer, 

gently pulling me out the train’s window.

the train slows down long enough

for me to consider getting off

my trophy for “most well-mannered”

from cotillion watches me.

keep moving, i nudge myself back on. 

you don’t want to disappoint everyone.

so through tendrils of labyrinthine vertebrae, 

the dutiful spine tucks away my secret doubts,

which, slowly covering one another, 

starve themselves of light,

yearning to get off the train

and stand still 

in the sun.