By Linda Woolven
Unshed mountains
of grit and steel
labor
in womb like
caverns
wet
and heavy
with
air coughing coal.
The black dust,
liquid gold,
that fuels the fires,
the furnaces
of men�s greed.
The rich ones
who never
descend below--
in this lifetime--
to the bottom,
the bowels
of the world.
The naked mountain
stands cold,
disrobed
in the
white of winter,
dry and disused,
parched,
a shriveled thing
in the scorch of summer.
The village nearby
runs by the siren
they hope to never hear.
The horn of death.
Of men trapped deep.
The suck,
struggle for
air: life,
that total black,
as air is
turned to carbon death.
Last breath,
alone
in a womb
mined dead and barren.
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