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
New in Town
by Tomoé Hill
... Some of the nicest people, she would say, spend their days tending to the things that we call the darkest ...
Heaven
by JP Vallières
... Sometimes Jesus joins us for a game of ping pong ...