the massage

the woman
who you don't know by name,
has her hands
on you.
it's nearly dark in the room.
incense burns.
music, just a flute
sifts from a ceiling
vent.
she pours oil
and digs into your soul
with her palms,
her steel fingers.
you lay
naked under a thin
warm sheet.
slowly she kneads
the muscled
dough of you,
down to the softening bones.
tell me if it hurts, she says.
to which you
smile and whisper as
if to a lover, no,
go on.