Photo by Jou00e3o Vu00edtor Heinrichs on Pexels.com
her home is a cramped one-story
with a superficial crack
in the corner of the only window
above the kitchen sink
the one where she can see
the hands and feet of her children
when they swing high enough
there’s a small tear in
the living room curtain
the one with the
small blue flowers
she’s been meaning to
sew it but her children
speak to the sun there
the holes in the backyard
are their rousing valleys
the flooding in the grass
is their forest floor
they whisper simple
requests to the weeds
that smother the foundation
she puts her head
in the soft earth and
hears their laughter
like muffled glass
Magic Mama 