(for Kat Fleming, massage master)

You know how you feel yourself
levitating off the table a bit,

your body barely kept from
ballooning up to the ceiling

by her hands doing that thing
she does, her strong fingers

holding up the back of your
head along the occipital ridge,

so that whatever schmutz
you’re carrying drains like

fine sand onto the table—it
feels that way anyway—

and when it’s over, when you
have to somehow unstick

the melted you from the table,
reassemble all your parts into

the bony structure of you,
your satin self still drifting

somewhere near the ceiling?
That. That’s what her hands

do, somehow allowing you
escape the body that serves

as the garage for your soul
while planting you firmly

into the rich soil of yourself,
and you are so wobbly-grateful

afterward that the word
massage hardly covers it,

the bliss of being. Just that,
which is everything.