It is a muscle that flexes,
It is toned
but rarely down.
When it is pulled and
ridden like a Charlie horse,
I pray for the hands of a masseuse
and elbows of grease.
I break open her chest
with the sign of the cross
and knead gently between
the calcified beats.
I search for the pressure points
and work on the knots,
my praying hands,
the only conversation between us.
Every fiber is stretched
and the blood that flows
through the squeaky ventricles
is the same that restores them.
A mother’s heart rarely
skips a beat,
but at times carries a murmur,
a fluttering through each chamber.
A mother’s heart enlarges
and at times adopts an arrhythmia.
I pray for a peace-maker
to be sewn in to set a new pace.
I pray for the steadiest of hands
and the guidance of the Great Physician.
jerry…so sorry for the loss..this brought tears to my eyes…read Under the Sycamore as well and was deeply moved..just didn’t manage to write back as sometimes there are not enough words to really say what we feel… sending hugs and prayers your way