He grew up on coal.
The black dust settled
over everything, he swam in it
in his mother’s womb.
He breathed it, it ran
In his blood.
He came from a long line
of coal-mining moles,
men who came home every night
coated with thick black dust
they could not wash off.
They ate coal, their intestines
and lungs were lined with it.
They choked on the coal,
they strangled on it and starved.
They were crushed beneath
its dark weight
and he was no different.
Right up until the day
he pointed the shot gun
at his head and pulled the trigger,
he was no different.
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