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.