By Chris Blexrud
Summer 2021 | Poetry
Her mother sleeps whenever she can,
late afternoons on top of the sheets,
light pouring in from the windows with
the errands left undone.
She’s like a church in a mine
where work and worship
join blistered hands.
And all the little heads come to bow
at the edge of her mattress
—softer than anything—
where miners still dream
even after a cave in.
Chris Blexrud is a writer and editor living in New Orleans.
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