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.