Truth Or Something Like It In Murakush (Land of God)

Two taps at the door,
my wife motions.
A small woman,
smiles in the lines of her face,
wearing a hijab and abaya,
totes a tooled leather box,
sets it on the nightstand,
directs me to remove my clothes.
If I prefer, I can wear underwear.

Inside the box are colored bottles
and folded towels she arranges
in rows. After pouring musk oil
from a ruby bottle, she directs me
to lie on my stomach,
rubs her hands together
like pieces of flint and steel,
lays them at my shoulders,
draws them down the river
of my spine,
dories drifting with the current.

I open my eyes. My wife pretends
to read. No spot untouched,
dark eyes gesture beneath the hijab.
I roll on my back. Fingers stream
down my face, cradle the nape,
meander my arms.
Our fingertips barely touch.
I think of God and Adam on the ceiling
of the Sistine Chapel.

She ascends, retracing the way
to the chest, kneads it, grasps my flanks
like the vertical plank of a cross,
lifts my limp body,
the crucified savior of the Pietá,
reaches to my thighs,
digs nails to the point of blood.
I groan. My leg spasms,
or so I tell my wife
before she gets up to see the truth
I hide with a red hand.