When her supple fingers

Apply oil on my back

While trying to test my bearings

I adjust myself to the dim lights,

Soothing music and a semi hard bed

An expert masseur she is,

Straightens herself on my back

Shifting her balance on vertebra

Buttocks and on the thighs

She transforms into the mystic dancer

Child births, unending household chores

She needed respite from her back ache

A small nap in the afternoon

Mother needed a massage

With soft feet and the weight of seven jasmines

It is the child that stamps on her back

Walking all the way from neck to feet

Rhythmic steps and gibberish Chanting

She taps me to turn the other side

I see the mother,

Where is the child

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