The Masseuse
To JM
janine canan
My masseuse has discovered she is angry
with her mother for not protecting her.
Against your father's rage? I ask. She lifts her face
through the smoke of scented candles. No, sex.
I sob into the white sheet as her hands,
apologetic and smooth, begin to search.
And those other hands, large, rough -- what did they do,
so now she feels a stranger to herself?
Shell earrings, blond curls tumble over her shoulder
as she reaches for my pain -- pressing -- rubbing -- pulling,
triumphing over those brutal hands,
that mauled in the darkness of sheets and muffled cries.
Floating over my body, as I fearlessly receive her love,
her hands grasp the life of the soul.
