It’s like that moment in Get Out where once
sunken, the guy sinks deeper. I used to marvel

at those Japanese soda bottles with pearly glass
balls, the balls you pop down with the soft

of your thumb. Lower going lower, essentially.
I am not sure if this is a medical problem

or a uteral one, the caving in on myself. Chest cavity
contorted, compressed to create space outward. It’s about

taking up space. Dad used to find me hiding
in the oddest places, the bottom of the laundry shoot

(on days where clean clothes lined our closets), the shed
by the pool (barren for years, unused, dirty), Mom’s

bedroom. Mom was gone by then. (That room
was a void.) I felt in these spaces a kind of blending

in with the landscape, a taking up of minimal
space, negative space, compressing, contorting my body

to fit inside the belly of the grand piano, willing
my parts to go numb, these legs are tuning pins

arms brass strings ankles and such. Still. Then,
in the late morning, someone would come sit

on the warm leathered seat, twiddle their hands
over the shiny white keys, Grandma or Brother

or someone. An eruption of vibration ensued, and I felt
everything inside of me buzz. I laughed, filled my entire body

with air, seperated from piano, stepping out of belly,
emerging. It was always a shock to remember how tall

I was, what the ground felt like, that I was something
3D. I felt it so sharply while watching the piano

play itself. I felt everything then, there,
standing there. I felt everything and realized
that the piano felt nothing, that you don’t ache.