COALMINERS’S YODEL NO. 1
Grandfather spoke fondly of Ike
In a breath scuffed by the lung-deep
Blackness that the Logan Mountains
Could never recover. Daily, he descended
Into those common graves with
A pickaxe or shovel,
Squeezed by two sooted hands,
On his shoulder.
Each step a retreat from the sun
And the blooms of morning glories
That warned the moon and the sly
Overnight creatures to go dormant.
And there, in the shivering black air,
He chipped the rock pitch unwittingly
With his own early inscription,
Balancing his thoughts of company script
Between the faint shimmering walls,
And slowly dying to keep living.
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