Ritual

Ritual

It was the way she stood that made her look pregnant all the time. Right hand on  
the small of her back while her left arm jut out in search of something to hold  
onto. Lamp post, railing, car door, wall. At arms length she stood near things, mechanically,  
magnetically aligning herself to the world in such a way that made her stand a bit  
bowlegged, pairing every physical pause with an exhale that was often a sigh. The body, the  
stance had become a ritual. The way she parked herself in space, soft belly jutting out  
without a soul inside it winning seats on the bus amidst collective public restraint  
not asking out loud  
but wanting to know how many months she’d have to stand like this.