Four Hands

One summer, broke, young mothers,

newly single, she and I massaged

lonely married men. Most washed.

Wearing only his ring, Starved, he said,

one even cried. Tell her, we said,

four hands crisscrossing the cross of him.

Others laid their tiny golden yokes

on the table, bedside.

Begged for more.

We are mothers, we said. You could

be the law. When the soundtrack of

The Last Temptation of Christ finally stopped,

zipped up, ripped off,

each man thought,

where is my happy ending.