I lie face-down
in wait for the massage therapist
wondering — have I worked the machine
of my body hard enough? —
     is this frivolity?
          Good for you,
               taking care of yourself, coos the receptionist
               each visit.

                    Fake candles flicker over the sound
                    of a canned brook — I babble
                    cannot name where the hurt started —
                              nothing new — I fold my tendons
                             doubled back
                              into the tightest origami star.

I wear nothing, can I shed the mini nova inside of me
down to just the sheet draped —
     shroud over my animated cadaver
          awaiting autopsy.

                    He asks again
                         where the grain of irritation
                    holds its roots

               Just my neck and shoulders,
     as usual.

He knocks at the door before entering,
and is never seen but always felt
          above me — Deep breath in.
     I am being prompted — Hold it. There is a right
and incorrect way to perform myself —
               now breathe out — slowly.

                    I try to remember
                         to feel where his thumbs
                    break apart muscle, his palms
                    separating the hemispheres
                              of my back
                    like he is tearing open a canyon
                         where my body resists,
                    a mussel closed tight
                    around the pearl under its sore tongue.

He asks again
     where the grain of irritation
holds its roots

          here — in the crab’s fist of my calves?
               here? — in the fractured rock under my glutes —
     or here — in the rising tide of my shoulders?

On the exhale he pushes my shoulders
several inches downward — A more natural position,
     try to hold them there. I want to ask for how long —

               forever?

Nathan McDowell and Neal Allen Shipley met over ten years ago as baby poets in college where they both held various board positions on the campus literary magazine, and also attended the weekly writing club. They developed a friendship over a mutual love of late night cigarettes and poetry. They have always shared a close editorial bond, always reading and critiquing each others' work, which grew into an experiment - co-writing poems and blurring the lines of "who" the poem belongs to, and sharing authorship equally. Nathan is a first-gen American poet and Two Dollar Radio HQ alum living in Columbus, OH. His work can be found in Bicoastal Review and Nude Bruce Review. Neal is a poet living in Colorado with a modest collection of pets and an unhinged collection of plants. His work can be found in South Broadway, Tension Literary, and Viridine Literary, among others. You can find him on Instagram @nealio9. Nathan and Neal's joint work can be found in Spark to Flame.