Portrait of My Mother as a House II • CL Bledsoe

Eaves leaning down like limbs straining under heavy snow;
I climbed on your shoulders, careful not to knock any shingles

In the arms of the wind, I could see your heart bellow thumping
in time with the revolutions of the world.

I do not know you. You stand on top of the hill
up which I push my boulder. Littering the hillside

with pebbles. I’ll name them, as you did me.
What more could I hope to do.