Riley Gable Fleming
ANOTHER SPINE POEM
I emerged from the family
bathroom at 14, blood-soaked,
shaking, the car outside running
ready to take me to another
failed gymnastics open-gym.
The year kept unspooling:
Dusty begged to be my first kiss,
a brief blaze in the center of a
child circle and would later
make fun of me for the panicked peck.
I was a frequented "kill"
in "marry, fuck, kill”;
flat yet pursued, pursued yet denied,
new sprinkles of blackheads
on my face and back each morning,
wanting so desperately
to be devoured that my teeth hurt.
And then: I was stuck tying my shoes,
brindled with white hot light,
and my mom knew before I could even explain
that genetics furnished me a defective spine.
X-rays and back braces, slipped disc
after disc so frequent it became
a running joke in class. I leaned into it—
What else could I do? My spine
spooling, unspooling, that shroud of pain
and click of release, nighttime appointments
to a family-friend chiropractor.
Wet hair, winter pajamas and sandals,
hobbling up to an inversion table.
Ready to be flipped, begging to be unwound.