MASSAGE
Her hands have the detailed roughness of sand
and strokes me into her present.
Her hands cannot sustain tomorrow,
but cradles my head so I may lay it down.
My back is hers to draw on, my legs are hers to run with.
My heart has a beat beneath her palms.
Her hands press my arms; her thumb rubs against my lifeline
Her fingers lace my own. My hot skin cools.
The fan blades cut the air, rolling beads of oil
a trail for her fingertips down my long spine.
I am turned into her. Helpless, but not a child.
I am caught in the act of another beginning.
I am caught in her body, that intricate machine
leading to her hands, coming from her hands.