Saturday, June 30, 2007

Poem

Jacob Wrestles with His Massage Therapist

Her thumb into my hip-
angel, wrestle me
from rock to rock.
I cling to you, pinched
for a blessing.

You know how to fly
yet you leap to wound-
displace.


The question:
is this hip socket the wound?


I wince as she
slides, releasing
toxins. Oh angel
bless me now in this clinch.

I am done and my fingers ache.
A sweet tired voice.
Affected,
off the table
I limp toward Esau.