Dec 26

Waiting in a Massager Chair

The plastic balls on their track
dig their way through the mottled
arguments in my back the way
your hands never could.   
Instead, your fingers wander
delicately, water spiders testing
the surface tension of skin. 

Breath gets caught in nets
when you touch me.  Your
hands suspend possibilities,
erratic opportunity, from thin
strands of silk.  You spin
the stories that make the hair
on my shoulders stand, the
warmth behind my thighs vanish.

This is a different approach to touch.
The impersonal kneading, the
shovel that whirs my muscles
into soil for some new crop.
There are no mysteries here,
no chance an old hurt will cave
under the automated pressure
the way they might under a
tongue, a nail.