My dad worked in the lead mines in Southeast Kansas in the 1940s. My family lived in the middle house of three small, unpainted houses. One uncle and his family lived on one side of us. My aunt and her family lived in the house to the west of us. The men went down the street to work in the mine every morning and returned every night. The recent coal mine disaster in West Virginia brought back thoughts of my dad, as well as of the men and women who go underground every day to dig out the ore that keeps our economy running.

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Early morning he dresses in the kitchen
while his wife brews coffee on the stove
and packs his lunch pail, spreading mayonnaise
across white bread, filling the red thermos.
The girl sits in the corner at the table.
She is six and what he calls work, she calls fear.
He puts his hard hat on and his light
and walks in the dark to the mine.
In the evening the girl waits on the steps
watching until his dirt-black face gleams
through the dusk. He is always out of sorts,
raving about what it means to be a man,
to pour his sweat and blood into this family.
The woman keeps her head down and doesn’t answer.
Late at night, her harsh voice penetrates the walls.

Now on spring days my father and I
walk around a town so small
it takes us less than an hour to cross it.
On the west side, we pass a monolith
of eroding concrete and steel,
remains of a worked-out mine.

I knew it was a mistake, your ma and me,
after six weeks, but you were on the way by then.
His voice goes funny and dry.

I catch a whiff of rust,
the seductive decay of long-extracted ore.