Small blue color and
smokeless flame,
the trash pit lacked
a mud clay and when
ignited by the matches,
the strip mine burned
its embers out,
subterranean veins of coal
were breathed on
with hot breath,
kindled in its hearth,
the mantle of the earth
awake and cooking.
An underworld vast
as Hell, you spread
your wrath to new
underground chambers,
then opened up
your power to
the peopled world:
sucking sinkholes
where children fell,
poisonous billowing vents
in cemeteries, effectively
cremating the dead –
your need was
insatiable. Inhabitants
trickled down to
other towns, houses were
covered with caution tape,
gas stations rumbled
with overheated fuel.
Now roadways to your
ghost town are blocked
by detours and forestation,
maps curiously overlook
the domain where you
still dance among the remnants
of your anthracite beauty.
Katherine MacCue is a graduate of the George Washington University. Her poetry has been published in RiverLit, Stone Highway Review, and she has forthcoming work in The Writing Disorder. She can be found at http://kvmacc.blogspot.com.
