Are you always this tense? my physical therapist asks
with her fingers inside me. She says
my muscles feel tight to the touch, like rubber bands.
Learning to relax the floor of me after months of strain
feels lewd and wrong—indolent, perilous—precarious,
like the foundation will fall out beneath me, like
nightmares of losing teeth.
Relinquishing the control I’ve held feels like breathing
from my belly for the first time since middle school,
feels like ordering what looks good on the menu
instead of what fits my total daily energy expenditure,
feels like backtracking over my no, thanks for the offer
to say actually, I do want something, anything,
feels like the childish desire to roll down the grassy hill
when I know I have to walk it.
You may not bounce back, she warns. But if I don’t let go,
I sense my hold will loosen regardless, against my will,
the way a rubber band slackens when stretched too far,
for too long.
