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
Heaven
by JP Vallières
... Sometimes Jesus joins us for a game of ping pong ...
I Cannot Find the Words That Rhyme with My Own Name
by Coleman Edward Dues
... hillbillies and creekers wage their wars with mothers’ sons / fathers’ brothers shoot themselves with daughters’ husbands’ guns ...