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Excerpts
Lingua
Franca
for my daughter who is too far away
by Mary Harris
if I lost my sense
of touch
I would find
you in the dark
by the aroma
of sweet, tart apples
I could not get
enough of when you
blossomed in my being.
and if I lost my sense
of smell
I would find
you at dawn
nestled close to my breast,
passing love between
our eyes, as needed
as the sweet milk dribbled
from your tiny mouth.
and if I lost my sense
of sight
I would find
you at noon
by kissing your fingertips
of bananas and peanut butter
from the sandwich you wanted
to make all by yourself,
as determined then as now.
and if I lost my sense
of taste
I would find
you at dusk,
your voice, a song
that tickles my ears
with the dust of fairy wings
as the clapping children
cry, “I believe.”
and if I lost my sense
of who I was
I would find
it again in you,
your heartbeat
would echo my own,
your inhale, my exhale,
your tears
my hand to your cheek.
Magic
Fingers At Work
by M. Linda Ensor
I’m ashamed to admit it, but I did say I’d
follow him anywhere.
“Follow me, please,” he said,
and I immediately volunteered, “To the ends of the earth.”
Fortunately, it wasn’t far.
The handsome young man directed me to a table and told me to leave
my clothes on the chair.
“You can just strip down to
whatever you’re comfortable with,” Brad said as outer
garments sailed past his head. I barely waited until the curtain
closed. By the time he came back, I was so ready.
It was the first night of Trident
Tech’s 10-week massage school hands-on experience.
For $15, you got a 45-minute massage
by a student who’s just about to graduate. And believe me,
they know their way around a table.
“This will be interesting,”
I thought. I’d had maybe 10 professional massages, and only
a few of them were done by guys.
“Let me know if this gets
too rough,” Brad said. Not a prayer, kiddo, I thought. For
the first ten minutes he worked on my shoulder and neck muscles,
then he worked his way up and down my arms, gently tweaking each
finger. Ooooh, baby.
Chamber music drifted through the
room. In the little curtained booth next to me, I could just barely
see the feet of the adjoining masseuse-to-be. They were a lot smaller
than Brad’s. And I could hear the customer, a young man, saying,
“I’ve never done this before!” They chatted a
little and I could tell he was just a bit nervous, perhaps because
he was being worked on by a she. Then silence fell.
Brad worked his way down to my feet.
After a moment I realized those funny little noises were coming
from me. If you’ve never had your feet rubbed, foot massage
is a combination of pain, relaxation and pleasure balanced by wanting
to giggle and jerk your foot away.
As he re-draped my sheet (yes, you
are covered, just exposing one section at a time) and started with
long pressured strokes up my calf, he said cheerfully, “You
know, this is the first time I’ve worked on a person of the
opposite sex other than my mother or a family member.”
Now, there are certain things you
just don’t want to hear at the time, and that statement is
definitely one of them. Just like you don’t want to find out
that your dentist graduated from dental school only a month ago,
right as his hand bearing an appliance resembling the Space Needle
disappears into your mouth.
A friend of mine went to massage
school and made it to the part where they had to get 75 hours of
hands-on experience (literally), when she realized she didn’t
like touching strangers. Six thousand dollars down the drain, her
mom said, but at least mom can count on getting a good backrub once
in a while.
“Everything okay?” Brad
asked solicitously.
“Bomfhoofm,” I drool into
my sheet.
We’ve reached the halfway point and Brad asked me to flip
over onto my back. Once there, it’s a lot harder to keep your
eyes closed and pretend you’re alone. You nearly have a compulsion
to talk, even though it’s the very last thing in the world
you want to do.
Silence from next door. The little
feet had moved to the far side of the table, and soft cooing noises
could be heard from around the room.
The room, by the way, was divided into perhaps five curtained cubicles.
Brad and I weren’t alone — far from it: five pairs of
feet, five people drooling into sheets.
By this time Brad was squeezing his
way around biceps and up and down arms again. When the hands moved
to my forehead and across the bridge of my nose, I knew I was being
worked on by a master. All the tension was just wafting away. Even
my ears got gently tugged.
I’m making a big mistake telling
you about this program. The school is now limiting us to three massages
each. Last year there was no limit.
Still, how much pleasure can one
person take?
“There,” Brad said quietly.
“Take your time, and I’ll meet you in the hall.”
“Anywhere you say,” I
mumbled.
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