a poem
When Frankincense as Scent Remains
touch and smell blend into connection
She anointed me with oil
of frankincense, blended
ㅤㅤㅤinto shea butter
Spread on my skin, her loving
hands, healing hands, hands
ㅤㅤㅤin their absence I sense — still
Push-pull to heal pain in my back,
that circle of suffering, hip to
ㅤㅤㅤhip, a stony vice
Please please also work my hands I
asked, hands upon hands upon
ㅤㅤㅤhands, strangely intimate
What is this bond that forms
among two strangers? A braided-bond
ㅤㅤㅤfrom first birth?
Her who worked to heal
me I did not recognize the face —
— yet do I remember her
of her soul; does she remember me
ㅤㅤㅤof my soul?
Sometimes, do we in one moment
experience eternity? Now:
let the frankincense as scent
remain — even if by minutes
ㅤㅤㅤit fades.
Writer’s notes: I seek to understand human touch; massage has been one path. As do their clients, massage therapists come in all forms, ages, presences. Some have better technique, or listen better, or are more skilled at discovering pain’s source.
This one, this massage therapist, has an uncanny quality of full-presence. She is new to her profession, yet when she worked on me, it was meditative, almost prayer-like. I felt her compassion and her yearning to heal.
Of this came connection — so rare for me. My autistic brain struggles with human connection, yet, with this human, it downpoured.
The scent of frankincense lingered into the night, and lingers still in my memory.
