the story your childhood home
your mother in depression then
how she stumbled awake in the afternoon
down the stairs, floral orange in her nightgown,
heavy from sleep, and weighted with sadness
the house itself was a dream
a longing in her own girlhood
three stories high, and white, with more windows
than a small family could need
on a street lined with others like it
that long stretch of steps curving up
the house a mountain to be scaled, a struggle won
she'd stand at the top, dressed and shined
on her good days, waving her greeting
the house sat, on that wide street,
far from the coal camp where she was born
and laid by her sisters on the oven door,
far from the few rooms where they all lived
and the windows clouded like wax paper
from the chipped mirror where she gazed
at her lovely face and practiced come-hither looks,
where she plotted her future
this hill girl has made it out, the world thinks