Publication
Article
Psychiatric Times
When she asks me to massage the ache in her knuckles,
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 or wheelchairs.
I've seen apricots in my orchard
blossom too soon,
so fragrant in early April
killed by hard frost in May.
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