The Apocalypse Comes to Coal Country

What if the mines shut down and the only coal left is in my father’s lungs? Will EPA paratroopers descend upon him and finally put down the Beast? Will the Smithsonian offer him a swig of formaldehyde and a homey corner? Might coal barons, citing English folklore, force dung down his windpipe and wait for more coal to sprout? Perhaps a union will bamboozle him into dying for the cause, then hail him as a Tolpuddle Martyr, or a ringmaster will whisk him away, teach him to blow fire rings for lions to leap through. The question is who won’t stake a claim? Who won’t drive a fanning flag into my father’s gut, and wait, camera-eyed, for timely reporters? Who won’t forget that here, coal is a type of savior, a god appeased by the ritual sacrifice of men, snared by a cage and lowered into his throat. A god who built towns by standing still. Who will destroy us if we believe.