(for Dad, 2008)
December is leafless
and the ridges south of the river reveal scars.
The snow resting on their flanks is dry and airy.
It slips off bony-shouldered outcroppings like a thin hospital gown.
We are following rail lines south.
The rail lines follow the river.
The river follows the curve of mountains.
The mountains follow corded veins of coal.
We drive into the coming night
toward a patch of earth on a mountainside.
We are following our father home.
Lights flicker on in the coalfields.
Along the railroad tracks cracked coal,
as sharp as a man’s dying, await loading.
I trace these mountains against my heart.
They are old and crook-backed,
and as knotted with sorrow as my father’s hands.
I push my knuckles hard into my chest.
This night is saturated with a sound that will not stop–
the steady rasp of breathing, the faded hospital gown rising,
and then the breath falling . . . and falling away.
Shutta
01-08-09