APPREHENSION

That to grasp, to seize, lay hold of
meant learning
but also dread
was instinct
even when we were little.
Not that way in the first place,
only once we came here and waited
in each line school made us wait in, coming,
going, all transitions,
meals, bus, recess, water fountain, bathroom.
Raise your hand to speak. Wait
until called on. If wrong,
they'll make sure you know you wasted
their time, should have thought

harder, like concrete, harder, diamond,
brilliance forced up from the earth
and cut, so rare to be wanted.
Who wanted us here, wanted anyone?
Where the hell else would you be?
We followed the paths deer made or took
into the grip of forests.

__

SENTENCE

Held her up
like she was the only one,
but of course
there were many of us by then

without tongues,
without hands or arms,
bodies become free
and words common
and known
for what happened,
what she let happen,
the story often goes

although we also know
there's nothing you can do
sometimes, no way to see,

and so she was any story
we told, retold, 
embroidered 
with details of our own

like the make of his vehicle,
the weapon
if he used one,
what he promised
or said, if he said
much of anything,

and she filled the space
when we couldn't 
move or speak.

__

POPULATION

Then the sun was so low, it seemed trees were burning from underneath,
and those who thought the world dying felt justified,
assigned children to read "Fire and Ice" and explain its meaning,
which they did, for the grade, but couldn't understand,
not really, even with all the want and hostility they'd already seen.
Because how could a world end? The shell would empty
of people, disease or natural disasters or violence of people
against people until the sun lit the tallest in the forest
and the ridge ran purple and orange in the way of oils
across canvas, fire in fall captured. The books sat on shelves,
spines out for easy reference, in the houses left over, but the world
remained. Altered. Empty. Children dreamed of the day.

__

COMMON IN THE MARGINS

She is obsidian on the blonde prairie,
daughter of a god, not coal,
which her father is known for mining. Through the volcano 
of the old country in his stories, she learns the earth 
is a monster that men torture 
with labyrinths as if her form isn't enough 
to please them. There's no forgetting under heaven
and no running when the same bodies
keep time over the skies of every land,
and no land is new, only countries.
As long as there've been dreams, we've craved 
jewels and metals, but we settle
for coal that burns to turn engines.
You, girl, as volcanic glass
are already past metamorphosis
so never worry. He works deep
in the shafts and returns to her as dust
living and breathing.

__

Coal mining is a part of the heartland. Catch a glimpse of growing up in this world in these poems and [this archive].