M. Benjamin Thorne
NITRO NOCTURNE
Pop used to say that West Virginia stars
were the hearts of pitted mountains,
thrown up in the sky like ore hauled up a shaft.
Bright white-yellow they burned, like phosphorus;
when smog tried to suffocate the light,
he’d point them out with blackened hands
and marvel at the way they’d still glint,
cold, sharp, and steady.
On nights when my chest felt like a cave
collapsing in, unable to breathe
from coal and petro-chemical miasma,
I’d wonder if my lungs were like those mines,
hollowed out asthmatic wrecks
used up and abandoned.
Coaches used to ask why can’t I run,
as if my life wasn’t spent running
from pollution, the taint of black air,
the taunt of being a Mountaineer—
in-bred dumb redneck hick they said,
other kids from cleaner environs--
but when they held their grandfather’s hand
and let go, they couldn’t see its dusty
shadow later, a ghost holding on,
saying I love you in poison grit.
Their stars were not like mine,
precious gifts torn from the earth.
I moved away from Nitro years ago,
but when coughing wracks my body
still it comes back to me,
hacked-up mementos of ruin,
pink constellations of loss.