Enlarged Heart

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.

I Didn’t Ask

I didn’t ask to be born.

Love crashed together.

Love pushed me out.


I don’t will my lung’s inflections.

I don’t whip my ventricles

yelling “stroke, stroke, stroke.”


I won’t ask to die either.

Love separates my self.

Love pushed me to you.


Each breath it’s evidence

as chambers syncopate

murmuring “you, you, you.”

>Who Told? … for One Shot Wednesday


Who told you to do that?
That thing you do with your lip,
when you tuck it under your teeth?
Or that occasional bounce in your step like
walking on inverted slinkies?
Or that way you wipe off the phone
on your thigh after saying goodbye?
Who told you to flash a dimple with that smile?
Or the way you sand down your voice
so it’s as smooth and light like balsa wood?
Who told your eyes how to tap
dance when we make contact?
Who told you to say what you feel with
grace and depth like the trinity
of brush, oil, and canvass?
Who told you to love my often
independent self?
Who told?