If healing has hands
they are hers. Rivers of mercy
flow down the tense neck,
the knotted muscles,
the contorted spine.

Weeks of mind over matter
soothed by hands that pull
like artist’s brush through
rich ochre. She banishes the
demons drumming the shoulders.

Grace must be like this:
touch melting stiffness.
Miraculous, the gifts
we give each other. Don’t
stop. Don’t ever stop.