The Massage... a poem of sacred touch -by Marcia Singer

THE MASSAGE
5/29/96

Cool silk,
Outdoors,
an evening breeze teases us.
I fingertip across your skin,
Tracing breezy pathways along your thigh
dancing high
along a leggy you.
Drops of anointing oil I pour
into the cup of my palm,
calm rose and mint scents
borne on a small gust of windspin,
spirited, wrapping ‘round us.

These hands are working their magic,
Love magic, Beloved,
Gentling you right into the lap of the Goddess,
Stroking your hair, soothing away care
-dare to caress you all over.
Slow, slow, such an oh-slow delicate tease
sees
the marks of strain, pain of the world
written on your face and brow.
Somehow
We’ll erase all that.

My hands move slow,
go down so deep, way inside where you lie
awaiting me to bring you back into Life.
Gliding, sliding, oil, rose petal-scented healing,
rubbing away remembrances of past hurts.

We move together,
Two, a silent duet,
Your body, my hands

(c) Marcia Singer, 2001