For the Girl Who Raised Herself
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.
Other Works
2 Poems
by Matthew J. Andrews
... My heart is a pack of wolves with no teeth, a herd of deer with no legs ...
THE FOGGY SEA.
by Shane Jesse Christmass
... My hoarse voice—nothing here to please me—contact lenses in the dust ...