The Coal Life: Poems

Ashes and Dust

Ashes and Dust “Wherefore I abhor myself, and repent in dust and ashes.” —Job 42:6 The reverend presses a thumb to my forehead, draws a crucifix with ash from the coal stove instead of last year’s palms— You must identify with Christ, his suffering, his withdrawal into the wilderness. Crossed Jesus stares over his shoulder at the silk eggs and dusty wings in the cobweb dangling from the ceiling. His body conforms to the cross the way clematis winding a hackberry climbs for light, submits to its shape, its obstinacy, and grows into the trunk becoming the tree. All I can see is how it must have been: the body’s rage twisting against the cross like pyracantha loosening the nails that bind its falling. I want to take this oiled figure outside into the sun and rain, into the clouds of coal dust from the tipple that settle on us all. I want the body weathered gray and covered in soot, wood warped and splintered, nails rusted, staining buckled wrists and forearms. Otherwise, I’ll abhor no flesh that is mine. 15 ...