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      July 8, 2012Sago, West VirginiaSonia Greenfield

      The blast was
      a rumble, rock cascade,
      stone seal. The cave
      was a pinpoint
      of un-light, a hole,
      whole. The wives
      cried. The coal
      a black ribbon pinned to
      a lapel. The gas
      was methane in a shaker,
      a drunken slew. The lung
      an inky sac that
      wrapped a greater body
      in a bag. The letters
      said goodbye. The miners
      pulled a curtain, prayed
      a sinner’s prayer.
      The lamp, a night light
      as each crawled
      into sleep. The survivor
      made a baker’s
      dozen. The twelve
      no longer there.

      from #36 - Winter 2011

      Sonia Greenfield

      “Sometimes there are some tragedies that I can’t shake, and I try to work them out with words. Maybe it’s my own therapy. Maybe if I apply language, which is sensible, to that which seems senseless, I can make peace with the human condition. I’m not sure it’s working. Martin Toler, one of the miners, left a note that read: ‘Tell all I see them on the other side. It wasn’t bad. I just went to sleep.’ I hope every word of his note is true.”

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