In which Carrie appreciates her body …
All of these naked bodies, remarked myself
in the dressing room of a spa, glistening with oil
or to be oiled and roiled with emotions suppressed.
You deposit your clothing and your big bucket purse to the safety locker
and move to rooms of your resolve.
Some of you are certain this is your right.
Others take persuading; Is it my body? Can I afford this symbol of self-affection?
Confusion infused at the hard place in your neck: am I?
Today you give yourself up to one who needs nothing from you.
Enter the hero of the hour: Massage Therapist.
I love you.
Your identity becomes mine and this becomes care.
I lay prone on the heated table with my face in a hole watching your human feet go by.
At first I don’t trust and try to map your movements.
I note the amount of oil you use, the grace with which you pull the cover from my back.
I advise myself: stop.
Just exist on a planet in kind feeling room.
Detach from the attachment to trust.
Demand not control but embrace the giving up,
agreed upon, this safety place,
between you and those of the professional.
She needs nothing from you
Except to tell her if the pressure is too much.