The Masseuse's Son Poem by Ian Ayres

His mom’s client hurried naked from her room
Aroused, proof she’d been doing more than massage
Or massaging more than backs as if to confront
All the petty people brought up by petty people
Who believe what they believe without questioning
The night a nine-year-old boy was shoved into a pool
Of his mother’s blood and towels thrown at him
To clean it up clean it all up don’t leave a trace
The blood dripping from between her palms

Her rocking back and forth naked on the edge
The boy at her bare feet, a beauty mark his focus
Her toenails painted the color the towels became
Her hands muffling the words, “Don’t let it stain…”
The boy’s sisters and baby brother crying behind him
Feeling he’s the eldest and should kill the latest
“Dad” whose fist they saw pounding her nose
Yet love pervades and turns blood into blossoms
Fragrant next to her bed where she rocked

Her perfume was all that caressed him
After she’d left for yet another night
The boy dreamed of becoming more
More than he’d held in with her blood
He didn’t know this planet would not last
Refused to get lost in other illusions
Her blood had blossomed on his hands
Red roses had filled her room
And her bed lay gaping.