The Massage

On the table in the peaceful room,
I wait to see what this new creator will make of me.
Body and soul, I am
The medium for her message:
The massage.

On the table in the quiet room,
I experience a virtual reality—
Each stage of her touch
A different story.

Standing over the table in the stove-warmed room,
She is the cook. I am the bread dough she is kneading.
I am cheese being grated, but it doesn't hurt.
My leg is a green onion,
Having its outer skins pulled gently off.

In the very warm, peaceful, quiet room,
Her fingers knead and fold,
Rocking my separate parts into
One whole ball of clay.
There is an artistry in her touch as she folds my left arm
out like a wing, then in like a handle.
And I am well on my way toward being a teapot
As she forms my right arm into the spout.

In the quiet room gone back in time,
I am dad in his easy chair after a long day mowing hay,
Saying, "Rub Pa's head."
She is me, scratching fingers through his hair
Kindly, lovingly, with just the right amount of vigor.

On the table in the warm room,
I am hot taffy being pulled by the well-buttered hands
of four little snowbound girls
In Clara Brost's kitchen.

From this room now expanding—
I am stretched by her fingers through both space and time.
She is sea brine. I am protoplasm
Buffeted back and forth.
And when at the end she cups my ear,
I can hear the ocean
As from a shell.

Copyright 2000 Judy Dykstra-Brown