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…