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