His mom’s client hurried naked from her room <br />Aroused, proof she’d been doing more than massage <br />Or massaging more than backs as if to confront <br />All the petty people brought up by petty people <br />Who believe what they believe without questioning <br />The night a nine-year-old boy was shoved into a pool <br />Of his mother’s blood and towels thrown at him <br />To clean it up clean it all up don’t leave a trace <br />The blood dripping from between her palms <br /> <br />Her rocking back and forth naked on the edge <br />The boy at her bare feet, a beauty mark his focus <br />Her toenails painted the color the towels became <br />Her hands muffling the words, “Don’t let it stain…” <br />The boy’s sisters and baby brother crying behind him <br />Feeling he’s the eldest and should kill the latest <br />“Dad” whose fist they saw pounding her nose <br />Yet love pervades and turns blood into blossoms <br />Fragrant next to her bed where she rocked <br /> <br />Her perfume was all that caressed him <br />After she’d left for yet another night <br />The boy dreamed of becoming more <br />More than he’d held in with her blood <br />He didn’t know this planet would not last <br />Refused to get lost in other illusions <br />Her blood had blossomed on his hands <br />Red roses had filled her room <br />And her bed lay gaping.<br /><br />Ian Ayres<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-masseuse-s-son/
