Muscle Memory

Initial massage session as therapist and client
see if they'll have a workable bond. White jeans
and t-shirt, soft ocean music in the background,
she pokes and prods, learning how the woman
on the table is knit together. getting a feel for who she is,
quite literally.  Woman's on her back, face calm, emotionless;
but skilled, strong hands perceive things hidden from view,
secrets tucked inside the pocket of shoulder sockets
firmed up at the gym, sorrows stuck just under
the surface of the skin on slightly aging neck, unblemished chest.
Lashes flutter open as if from interrupted dream.
"Is that my broken heart?"
she asks softly, so softly she might've been talking to herself,
except their eyes meet. A pause, another set of eyes
softened in response: "Maybe."
Little muscles (zygomatic major) contract almost imperceptibly
at the corners of her mouth. Tiny smile. Eyes close.
Back to business, but she'll return.
Many times, the turmoil of her life
easing by degrees as it's manipulated to the surface,
escaping into air that smells like eucalyptus leaves.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012