hands flat against the mattress,
hips moving slightly, up and down
up and down—searching
for the spot
where relief is almost, almost, almost…
A fractious moan feeds on the heat
gathered in my hip,
and flies out of my lips
into his ear.
Without speaking, he grabs “the good oil”
and straddles the back of my thighs;
he cradles my hips with his legs
and with strong fingers starts playing
familiar keys on my back,
“A bit to the left.”
“Yes, but harder.”
His fingers find the inflamed spot
their magic into my flesh.
My lower back
drinks the comfort of his touch,
that warms each muscle,
and soothes me
to the bone.
Process Note: When my chronic pain began to worsen, about 18 months ago, my Piano Man began the ritual of rubbing my back night before bed. His hands, his love, his patience and generous amounts of “the good oil” are my best and most welcome form of fast relief. This poem describes our nightly dance… Well, some of our dance; the other parts might be suited for a rather racier blog *cough*.