Brace, by Alexis Lee

Synthetic microfibers intertwine beneath the grey

surface. Wires coil inward until the buckle clicks shut

                 around me. Telescopic hooks catch on the worn

fabric, pricking my skin. A grey-blue vest dulls

under the fluorescent light. I learn, again, to breathe

inside a thing built to hold me

                 straight.

Scratchy nylon drags along the wooden floor.

Spiderweb mesh channels air through narrow

seams. A hidden zipper splits the front panel open.

For one second I am

                 out.

But I fold back the velcro straps again and again because without it my back

unlearns the line, curves again.
Loose threads fray near my left shoulder. The arc, the x-rays say,

caves as the cage rights my spine. So I lie

                 braced for a sleep that won’t come. A dream I won’t have, where I

                 kick it off under the blanket

for good because my spine has hardened enough not to bend anymore—

Free. Though I wonder if I’ll still reach for it some night years from now,

                 Spine lifted and certain, for a cage I don’t need.

                 Just to be sure I don’t wake up crooked.