Lucía M. Polis The Poetry of

this process is so old
the autopilot's on

I introduce myself
explain that which he cannot fix
pontificate
                on numbered vertebrae
                on exercise (or cisms


the same oiled hands slide down my spine
his length of arm  it gauges pain

there are no revelations here
the body old
its issues manifold
                            he kneads in silence
                            finds me tender


harder.
i inhale (let go
and out  out
                   to let him at my neck  I must roll up
                   under the rude lights  the man is a dumb boy

with the hands of an angel
i let him do what he must to me