Healing Hands
the massage put me to sleep before I could publish the poem
Untitled (Healing Hands) | 04/30
When was your last massage?
it’s been almost a year.
i’ll admit i had some fear
maybe feeling it’s hard to
accept these at home luxuries
ain’t no massage envy nor
spa packages, what you’re
really asking is remember
the last tender touch you
accepted as love limbs
relaxing into a palm
fingers pinpointing
pressure meant to
calm the pain. know
the hurt that remains
is really a reflex
Are you feeling any pain?
what you’re really trying
to say is in this united
states my black female
body represents, is the
recptacle for, the vessel
which carries suffering
disaster and sorrow
that white americans
think they can escape
place their avoidant
immature worldview
of hate on our shoulders
yes, i feel it there tension
when i turn my neck
a burning belt around
my waist. i don’t think
my feet have ever
relaxed toes gripping
wild terrains, running
after revolution never
catching a break
Have you been in any accidents?
are there answers for my
unraveling? yes, a car crash this
january and many before – you
can hardly tell how they tore
up my body, how half the hurt
is internal. i’m just relieved to
be alive. surprised when you say
my neck pain is really in my hips,
feet are connected to my thighs,
when you touch my hand, it’s a
relief between my eyes. i know
the body keeps the score
trauma from years before
is trapped but when i got on this
table i didn’t know what you’d
do to my ass and i’m truly
humbled. the only happy
ending here is pounds of
epsom salt released into
the water, a soak you do not
want to skip. dr. teals
daughters dip to forget
the discomfort, but how
could i not remember
these healing hands?
Yesterday’s poem, “Untitled (Healing Hands),” was a painful pleasure to write. Much like my massage from Mr. Will - the at-home masseur my sister swears by, but I’ve been too afraid to try, until yesterday. This poem too builds from Safia Elhillo’s ‘Medical History generative writing workshop’ which inspired 03/30, HeLA, It’s Me. The workshop offers five thematic poems and asks five questions, none of which I could fully answer. What aspects of your pain are inherited? What kind of care do you long for? When did the pain start? Serendipitously, the answers came to me through conversation and quiet reading.
My current book, The Fire Inside The Dharma of James Baldwin & Audre Lorde, by Dr. Rima Vesely-Flad, connects Buddhist teachings to Black, Queer, and Feminist frameworks through the writings of Uncle Jimmy and Mama Audre Lorde. Chapter 4 explains IT COMES FROM SOMEWHERE, while Dr. Rima is discussing white delusion, I think it applies to pain. She closes the chapter with an N-RAIN meditation that, I believe, will help those without healing hands identify their pain points. I hope this poem and the meditation guidance provide some relief.
Be back soon with an Easter poem.
Black Blessings!
ming joi