Slinkage By B. Lynne Zika

Each time he slips into my thoughts

the projectionist rolls tape.

I might be wooing

the bottom of a box of Kleenex

or riding out the current tidal wave of pain.

Doesn’t matter. Estrogen floods my body;

video begins. He’s standing, his back to me,

in the shower.

I slip through the plastic curtain

and lean full-body against him.

I commandeer the soap.

The wet, white bar nestled in my palm

strokes a line left shoulder to right,

then to his underarm, fingertips,

a slow glide to biceps, right shoulder,

then back to center.

His left arm lifts to meet me.

It knows what’s about to come.

The muscles of his back are hardened

from running and weights,

richly deserving their due.

And so I trace in soapy waves

trapezius, 

latissimus dorsi,

down 

thoracolumbar fascia,

sweet.

A decision is required:

Advance?

Retreat?

Care to vote?

Well, only the left side

has been properly addressed.

Surely this conversation

should be continued.

Long

sweep

up the right,

tracing in reverse order,

not quite so slowly.

After all.

I am not a self-sacrificing creature.

I return to the lower back.

Have you any idea

the things running does

to the gluts?

Soap in hand, I…

Really, I must stop now.

After all, this thing

is only in my mind.

B. Lynne Zika is an award-winning poet and photographer and a retired editor of closed-captioning. Her father, also a writer/poet, bequeathed her this advice: Make every word count.