Warm oil drips
from her fingers onto
my tight, tender muscles
as she massages my body.
It takes me back to a time,
when my children were infants,
and I rubbed them with baby oil,
except her touch is firmer.
As the therapist strokes my arm,
she hands me a warm stone
before sliding it up and down
my arms in a slow motion.
She talks about Indians,
how they once took stones
from creeks and heated them
to warm their bodies at night.
I think of mountain streams
wildflowers and fresh cool air
as the warmth of the stones lull
me into a world of perfect peace.
From When the Sap Rises (Finishing Line Press, 2008)
This poem also appear in Red River Review.
Used here with the author's permission.
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