It is a muscle that flexes,

always.

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.