it’s 1993

and there is nothing i can think of

that matters more than to serve

the gods of healing. i take a course

sufficient for licensing, but it is in practice

that the nature of the illness is revealed.

my work is in line with long history

of healing through touch. and this

is a touch-starved, bloated and anxious time.

worse, the shame of a culture

of commodified sex, means

it’s only a matter of time before

the first caller, ashamed to realise

he’s reached a clinic, not a parlour

and massage means therapy, asks anyway

in a pitiable voice, for at least a hand job.

and you know you have to be prepared

to refuse without further breaking the broken.

on the other side of the ledger, it is impossible

to serve some body on the table, to apply

the knowledge of anatomy, physiology

psychology and balance, without

seeing the absolute miracle

written in each lumpen back,

each scarred arm, each worried face

given in trust into my hands.