Trust Trained Professionals

Warm hands search vertebrae in my neck, wiggle my head gently to coax bones to surface.

This chiropractor doesn’t cheap on the gown— soft cotton wraps around, ties in front.

Relax: lutes and organs lullaby softly. Relax: or he’ll start over.

His index finger presses my bone. It’s askew, so his palms grip my head, drop it backward off the funny

table, sturdy, like the grip on dorsal and pelvic fins before a sharp knife scrapes scales onto a cutting board.

Exposed, even in this dim office, I will my body to limp. Swiftly, he snaps my neck—bones pop, gasp in protest

at their reordering. It’s unnatural, like seeing guts spilled on Formica. Yet I place my head in hands I know will snap

my neck, hands I trust to crack my spine the right way, leave me properly aligned to walk out the door.

I lay my head in warm hands in this dim room. Each time, hoping for catch and release.