When she asks me to massage
the ache in her knuckles,
I recall women I have touched
whose hands twisted
like apricot limbs
in their search for light.
I've never asked how
they hold a fork, play piano,
or stroke a lover's hair,
and when I rub my daughter's bones
with the soft pads of my fingertips
it is like wishing on a magic lamp:
Please, not Lupus,
not steroids or morphine(Drug information on morphine) or wheelchairs.
I've seen apricots in my orchard
blossom too soon,
so fragrant in early April
killed by hard frost in May.
