In the hammock house,
in the woods
at the bottom of the hill,
near where the brook trickles
over ancient rocks,
near the constant babbling
babbling sound of a brook,
there is a silent you and me
and you dipping hands
in a bowl of scented oils.
My eyes are shut.
But I see you,
your fingers lifting out
of the bowl, glowing
from the sun
shining in
through the screen —
the oil
spread all the way down
the length
of my pebbled spine
the same way water rubs stone
your hands
polish the surface
of the flesh, soothing bones
while blood flows
as a fresh mountain stream.
Therése Halscheid |
