Unclenched

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.