Blessed be the cerebral cortex:
its bustle, its chatter, its crowd.
Blessed be the amygdala rocking
the curly-haired, dimpled, dead child.
 
Blessed be the spine that will hold us
to the task, to the thing that gets done.
Blessed be the life she’s forgetting,
my mother the obdurate one.
 
Blessed be the strength she remembers.
Blessed be the hay bales she tossed.
Blessed be the rib-cage rasp of the thin.
Blessed be our rattling embrace.