women of the delta
— elbert s. p. lee
Masseuse from Shenzhen
Her fingers landed on my forehead,
about the meridian.
Feel… the touch of a strange Shenzhen woman.
Tiny tapping fingers,
to which the contour of my face yielded its secrets,
gladly announced to the owner
about his previously deprived existence.
As she continued to play, to touch,
soma cells lined up–
about to march in columns.
Germ cells danced, nerve cells echoed,
firing in rythym,
to the direction of a great
40-yuan-an-hour concert master
whose name and life is tangential to that of von Karajan.
And in her very hands– a fine kinesthetic-tactile instrument–
made for one single audience,
on which she constantly
redrew lines between intimacy, sensuality, and human dignity.