Labor of Love

Destiny Perkins

My mother rises every morning to meet a drowsy sun.

She can count the jobs she has on two hands,

just look where days cut into her palms, left her calloused

and bleeding. She rises though the sun tells her to rest.

When the days are over, we find her wrung across the couch,

alarm clock pressed to her ear.  When I try to guide her to bed,

she insists she stay downstairs. Says she can’t afford

to sleep too deeply. I make her bed anyway.

The soles of her feet look like wind beaten dessert stone,

Deep sediment lines where skin has been broken and thick

callouses. She recoils at the gentlest touch. Yet, she paces the racks

at Nordstrom, her latest gig, having long stopped complaining

about hard concrete on her aching feet. She clocks in with my sister

who’s just turned 15. She never wanted us to work so young but she’s giddy

to have company. She’s sold these years of her life to ensure that we’re left with coal

instead of ash. We add our tax returns our shrine, choosing prayer to bridge

the gap between the blood we sweat and our paychecks. We’ve taken up her habit

of hovering inches above our beds knowing that if we sleep too deeply,

we’ll flee.