His Fingers Play Their Magic into My Flesh

Fingers spread,
hands flat against the mattress,
hips moving slightly, up and down
up and down—searching
for the spot
where relief is almost, almost, almost…
No.

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,

“Here?”

“A bit to the left.”

“Right here?”

“Yes, but harder.”

“Like this?”

“Oh…”

His fingers find the inflamed spot
and play
their magic into my flesh.

My lower back
drinks the comfort of his touch,
welcomes relief
that warms each muscle,
and soothes me
near pain-less
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*.

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NaPoWriMo with Magaly Guerrero 2015, Day 10 – Poetry for the Blood, Flesh, Bone and Spirit: Our poems should read like a relaxation chant… unwind us to the bone.

His Fingers Play Their Magic on Me