Cascade of poetic thoughts --random, at best-- and recovered from late May.

In my foolishness
I cleansed the body of one man
With the body of another




I began to tally my human contact.
Twice a week
I pay a man to put his hands on me
Professionally, not sexually
He rubs his brow, widens
His eyes, runs his mouth,
Fingers pulling my arms
Holding my hands
Running down my spine,
Around my neck
Across my buttocks
And hips


My beads, threaded
Are tangled in a heap
On my dresser, where I
Have left them for weeks.
My fashion halted,
Creativity suspended



I am starting to wonder if
I was groomed to carry
This disease.
You can overdo it in both ways
Too involved of a mother
And I am suffocating
I am strained, and strange.