At the Vietnamese Massage Parlor
You say nothing when I walk in
but take off clothes, keep underwear.
Keep underwear, you say twice more
with your back turned to me soaking
and wringing a towel in hot water,
steam rising up around your head.
The water from the towel drips
into a large bowl. My belt buckle clinks
against the tile, the table creaks
as I lay down still wearing my underwear.
The light clicks off and you approach me.
Your hands are worker's hands. The lumps
in my back are stones you lift from dirt,
bows you loosen using all your fingers.
You are a drawer removed from its dresser
like me - partially filled, partially empty.
I want to hold your emptiness
but I did not pay to touch; I paid
to have you press the breath from me.
I sing to you but you do not understand.
I tremble in this room, warm enough.
You whisper excuse me when it is time
to turn over, but I hear kiss me
and simply lay there not breathing at all.
This poem first appeared in Indiana Review
