No way to tell you’re in the mountains
until you’re above them, one curvaceous
silhouette lingering alongside the other.
No way to divine coal in the mountains
until you dig into them—first full trains,
then rust-empty trestles, a stinking river.
Trucks with Friends of Coal bumper stickers
tucked haphazardly beside trailers nuzzled
to the hill like napping seeds, waiting for
the second coming, a paycheck, the good old days
to be good again, an easy ghost-lie, a fine mist
curling off the mountains when the rain lets up.
The only coal here is hymn-empty,
a cough coming from the T.V. room,
roads sleeping like a bed of copperheads.
No way to tell my family this is pride
wrinkled into shame, believing we can still
build love in the dark, after everything burns.
