The sting of lye rasps around the hollers,
harsh as unkind words spoken among friends
betrayed to feud and flat land,
coal that lulls many to greed
hexed by the siren song of a child’s un-fed belly
that knows nothing of mountain tops
disappearing like specters.
We prepare our dead,
wash the remains of kin
onto soil that will never see harvest
or hope tilled into spring.
Today, we drown the sun
with the names of the lost
who wander our sleep
searching for dreams of forgiveness.
The weight of what is carried to the grave
is too great to rest under,
heavier than Kentucky clay
soaked with the sorrow of November
that lingers too long in the field.