Tonight's Poet Corner: My Massage

My Massage
by Belinda Roddie

You push your hands into my back,
and the sounds I make almost echo in
the dim, dome-shaped chamber of my mind,
rising up and down like murmurs from a
pleasant sea, your knuckles molding
the flesh on my back like dough refusing
to turn into bread. I have lost weight

recently, and grown stronger, so
the muscles in my shoulders have become
tighter, like a rope being coiled and knotted,
coiled and knotted, over and over in a
prickly row. You smooth out my rough edges,

let your fingers send firecrackers up and
down my arms, and kiss me gently to
remind me of where I am, and who I
will be, and how much I adore
you through it all.