Blood & Coal Dust

A horror poem.

Photo by Maksim Romashkin

We worked the same shift,
March through October.
His hands on the drill bit,
mine on the timber.

Down there you don’t talk much.
Just the mountain groanin’,
the dark so thick you can chew it.

Foreman caught us
behind the bathhouse.
Said nothin’.
Walked away.

Next mornin’ they sent him to the deep seam
and me topside, said it was temporary.
Later the men were waitin’ at the
shaft entrance for him,
twelve of ‘em.

I was topside when I heard it…
rocks on bone.

Over and over and over and over.

Foreman said there’d been an accident.
Said these things happen in mines.
Made me help carry him out,
and his face weren’t his face no more.
Just blood and coal dust.

Now I work alone.
Don’t know why the men picked him
and not me,
but they don’t meet my eyes no more.

And at night I wake up chokin’ on coal dust that ain’t there,
Hearin’ that sound,

rock on bone…

rock on bone…

rock on bone…

I could leave.
There’s other mines.
But I figure this is my penance,
different than his but mine all the same,
and I like to remember
which timber was his favorite,
which jokes he told,
the quiet way he said my name,
how soft he got before the end of shift
when it was just the two of us
and the long walk up.

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Thanks for reading!

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