That Good Night

There are among us those

who would gladly go

gently into that good night,

and those would willingly go

even without tenderness.

There are those who

would leap into the dark,

and those who would not care

to die in the light,

and many who would willingly

go without a fight.

Praying My Own Private Rosary

I peel the bandage back,

see the neat row of stitches

stepping across my wrist

like the tracks of a bird

in the snow.

Gingerly I trace the threads,

touch the knots

like rosary beads,

only I don’t

know what to pray.

The Miner

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.