On the Table
I was taught to smooth the aura at the end
said my masseuse, hands hovering at the end.
Inches above my placid pummeled self
did I feel something floating at the end?
Is my naked body merely prone
to extoplasmic vapors to no end?
Many another arthritic has lain here
seeking to roll pain's ball end over end.
Herbal oils, a CD playing soft loon calls,
wave raps, bird trills now must end.
I rise and dress, restored to lift and bend,
my ethereal wisp invisible at the end.
by Maxine Kumin
from Ravishing Dis-Unities – Real Ghazals in English
Wesleyan University Press, 2000
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