Her hands run down the hourglass of my back. Tracing the flare where burrowed absentee tension coagulates. Washboard. Bath water, Blackboard burdened with layers of letters and calculations never entirely erased.
We share answers to questions only asked by strangers who after four visits
will never see one another again. She strikes a lighter, sucking oxygen from small
glass cups that I cannot see, and attaches them to my back hovering above my
bruised ribcage. Fascia ripples, letting down like a lithely inhabited village
where our grandmothers still live, agile in their afterlives.
Her black hair is pulled back from her face. I
really only know her voice now from a warm table in a narrow room where, face down on
my stomach, my neck relinquishes to the kneading. The name she gives to the tight
spring under my right arm just at the webbing of shoulder blade and first rib is wholly new
to me. Swans, her therapeutic lyric. I try to swallow the minute fountain that
pools in my mouth, slack jawed, breath expelling after too many years.
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