This is an easy time to wish you did not work

with your hands. When every person 


on Earth is told to stay six feet from everyone 

else’s messy, lurking petri dish of a body, 


it is understandable that you might momentarily

curse your choices, collapse onto the couch 


in the back room of the best job you’ve ever had 

and cry like there is no tomorrow. Because 


there isn’t. When mere proximity’s a death knell

the world over, your days of coaxing release 


from the soft tissues of your fellow humans 

are numbered. How many hundreds of muscles 


put up their grim dukes, at first; how many 

thousands of others felt your fingers’ insistence 


and let go their oldest story – telltale red 

of blood vessels dilating under skin, your work 


working. How many have cried on your table.

How often you wiped your own tears on a sleeve 


while gliding down an upper trapezius, stretching 

a piriformis, cradling suboccipitals until both 


of you breathed deeper. When this is all over, 

there may be no normal to which to return 


but you will still have your hands; you will still

know the answer to the question of why a body, 


how change that seems so sudden it knocks 

the wind out has been building this whole time.



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