Masseuse
After Robin Robertson’s ‘Through the Tweed’
She claimed she could make
a man disappear
under her fingers, that she’d worn
the fingerprints off both her thumbs,
rubbing troubles out of the back of clients
till they lapsed.
Head to toe, she covered a volunteer
in a veil so we couldn’t see,
then set to work. Through the silk
she nudged around a fauna
of muscle and sinew,
feeling for the spots where he kept things
private. She counted down
the years of tension
like rings on a tree trunk,
and though the body seemed to keep its shape
I don’t know what reveal
we were expecting,
when she lifted up the veil
like breeze through the curtain:
a swerve of starlings,
his parents risen from the dead,
or just the print where he had lain
still warm on the mattress.
After Robin Robertson’s ‘Through the Tweed’
She claimed she could make
a man disappear
under her fingers, that she’d worn
the fingerprints off both her thumbs,
rubbing troubles out of the back of clients
till they lapsed.
Head to toe, she covered a volunteer
in a veil so we couldn’t see,
then set to work. Through the silk
she nudged around a fauna
of muscle and sinew,
feeling for the spots where he kept things
private. She counted down
the years of tension
like rings on a tree trunk,
and though the body seemed to keep its shape
I don’t know what reveal
we were expecting,
when she lifted up the veil
like breeze through the curtain:
a swerve of starlings,
his parents risen from the dead,
or just the print where he had lain
still warm on the mattress.
