NELLE 9 | 2026
A miner knows how deep he's gone by soot:
how thick, how black. He'd trade his only boots
for overtime, takes only what he’s paid to want:
raw hematite, the stretch that ends a yawn.
For lunch, a tear of bread, half-pack of smokes.
He chuckles toward his chest and sips on Coke,
not thinking much on what it means to dig.
He borrows prongs to sift the shards of slag,
and casts those mirrored rocks into the lake.
His truant children, fishing, will mistake
their side-cast hooks for hope lassoing stones
and, cranking slag in, assume a miracle
turned minnows into algaed gems. They’ll yell
like hill cranes fleeing south and dredge the sand
—with glee their dad couldn't afford to rent
—for every treasure sinking in the silt.