poetry = nonsense
nonsense = meaninglessness
meaninglessness = void
void = nothingness
nothingness = spirit

The Spa
they come to us wilted and frail their skin pale and dry, their eyes vacant creatures exhausted from playing in the rat race timidly they submit to our authority when we command they strip naked and stand embarrassed of their crumpled bodies with their blemishes and sagging flesh we embrace them genuinely -- they accept our care warily and lead them by the hand to the waters where we softly lather their languid forms with soaps, scented in the aromas of nature rinsing off their cares and anxieties hydrating their parched souls washing away the memories of their lives before they came to us cleansed in ceremonial manner they lay on comfortable warm bedding where our hands lubricate with perfumed oils every part of their physical presence our fingertips press, seeking their pain stretching what is tense, rubbing what is taut using palms and elbows exploring, probing the areas of discomfort our hands command the flesh palms sliding along a large muscle creating ripples of relief and pleasure resting on a furtive spot where guilt or grief or fear resides unnoticed our fingers researching the alignment of vertebrae, the disposition of tendons the apprehensions of an anatomy neglected the biological structures of delight we work hard for them, taking on the gravity of their dark little souls and turning it into light we leave nothing untouched the webbing between their toes their palms and fingertips the deep furrows in their brow their sternums and nipples even their gums and the roofs of their mouths we knead we keep pressing, manipulating manoeuvring, until their thoughts dissipate their mind focused on the work spirit present in the shared moment a chest finally relaxed, housing their palpitating entelechy and then: ataraxia a long moment to drift in the delicious solitude of music and the remembrance of the child at their leisure they arise feeling a little guilty of having stayed too long the stresses of their lives returning pressing them to complete the transaction so they pay, a wan smile on their pale faces and think of us a mere workers to be compensated in the sham of money and fear our closeness but they come back time and again touching with trepidation that line where they're fraternising with the help and we don't mind. we understand them [23-XI-2020]
Copyright © 2011 Erick Calder
All Rights Reserved
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