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
Ramię
by Andrew Felsher
... I can't endure saying a word that's a word to her, for I want it to be the word that's beyond the words given and assigned to us ...
And I Feel Like I'm Being Eaten
by Jane Black
... In every city there is a place for people like me ...