The Masseuse

by Ewong Martines

each night she yearns for someone
to end the coldness and tremble
of her hands, yet she would never
lament; the words no, not,
and don't have long died

in her throat. in the seedy room
she kisses the frozen breeze,
her tongue licking the dust
and salt of the passing minutes.
her slender nose can only smell

the surrounding darkness: the shy
flood of amber light washing over
this nest and all others occupied
by nocturnal strangers. her feet
barely move, but it is her mind

which wanders in the grocery halls;
there she happily fills her cart
with the most basic goods and
a pack of choco-peanut bars for
her little brother. her lean muscles

are tired, but the half-hour passed
strikes to declare that the man
with cigarette breath and musky
sweat needs more than her hands.
the drone of jeepneys from

what seems worlds away tells
it is time to make love again
without love. the flesh aching,
the spirit strained, and with that
lovely mouth of hers she longs

to cry, if only she could,
that even she needs a hand.