The neighborhood hilot pours 
warmed coconut oil into her palms
then straddles my back, working her
way down the length of my spine.
There's a cold weight there, she says:
sleeping in the sacrum or pelvis.
I don't know how to tell her how
long I'd been curled into myself,
nautilus asleep in a larger shell.
So much has pressed down on you all
these years. How do you know what it
felt like before that? Close your eyes,
she says. I don't realize when she's
left or when I've fallen asleep.

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