It is a muscle that flexes,
always.
I break open her chest
with the sign of the cross
and knead gently between
the tightened beats.
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 search for the pressure points
and work on the knots,
my praying hands
the only conversation between us.
My fingers rub in warm oil
on the sticky hinge
and her valve swings
freely open.
My mother’s heart rarely
skips a beat,
but at times carries a murmur,
a fluttering through each chamber.
My 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.
My mother is now with the Great Physician. Although I gave her Charlie horses at times, God was gracious to give me moments of massage with her before she died. I am so grateful for my mother’s heart which represents the hearts of all mothers.
Gerald the Writer 
Thanks for your time and thoughts.