In The Heart Of

Six men still lay beneath
the earth, beneath solid ground,
far from wives and girlfriends,
sons and daughters, far from food
and water, fresh air and sunlight,
far from their homes and lives, far
from a Friday night out with the guys,
far from reviewing that day's homework,
far from feeling the cool waters
of a shower rinse the dust from every
cavity, far from making a phone call
to say, it's okay, I made it out,
far from rescue. In the heart of coal
country, I know this story well,
one friend who became a widow
in a flash-fire that killed her husband
and nine other men, that took fathers
from their children and children
from their parents, that took youth
and the choice of where to lie
down for the final time away,
that took hope and possibilities
and dreams of a lake house and some
acreage quick as the fire took
their breaths. Not many days
pass that I don't think of that day,
all of the friends gathered in the kitchen,
waiting for her to come home, the smell
of roast and fried chicken, the sounds
of small talk and optimism, the look
on my face when she was brought
in the back door, supported by a sister
and mother, that look I can't erase.
I was smiling about something someone
said, something unrelated to the tragedy
that was yet to unfold, something not
funny but needed. There is no scream
like that of a child who has just been
told her father won't be back, no
nightmare that could equal the frozen,
distorted faces of friends gathered
in her kitchen when we knew she
had no choice but to tell, but to say
the words we could not hear
but knew, but to hear the weeping,
the screaming, the pleading, the quiet.