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Two poems by R.A. Skeens

The Score

The outside man
wades ground fog,
punches the drive to life,
and the belt line
takes up slack and slaps
the roof. Inside the mine,
men squirm to the bosses' roar,

unscrew scoop cat-heads
from battery chargers, play
out 440 cable behind roof bolters
and cutting machines, augur
holes in coal and tamp them
with black powder.

"Fire in the hole!"
"Fire in the hole!"
"Fire in the hole,"
the new shooter squeals
before he thumbs the red button
on the battery. Crawl clear
too slow, concussion
busts your lungs.

Last week's shooter
rammed too hard
on the lead powder stick
with his broom handle,
set the cap off and shot
the wood through his chest.
Pinned him

eighteen feet away
to the opposite rib.
Stopped production
for an hour while the crew
dug him loose with picks.

Controlled Burn

Part 1.
I am fourteen the fall my father
Buys my Great Grandmother's homeplace.
Punch drunk with seasons, it staggers
Off its foundation. Dry rot punks
The floor joists, and roofing snaps
Like a hound's jaws at the wind's buzz.

Moss and mold blurs all its edges:
Window frames and door casings,
Handrails on the porch, thicken like memory.
Mildew chews through nails, and siding
Sags out of true. Blackberry brambles
Scratch along the porch's edge like chickens.

Part 2.
Last summer, my Grandpa and I
Picked blackberries here, sidled
Along snake runs; the best berries
Tempt you from the maze's heart.
Lard pails full, we paused, pulled
Stamens from the honeysuckle
That garlands the walls. The nectar
Tastes like gold dust and daydreams.
Black lung took Grandpa last winter.

Part 3.
When my father pulls a drunk,
I hide here at Ma's place, pretend
I am dust and ghosts. Inside,
There is a niche behind the piano,
A fat candle and strike-anywheres.
In the darkness, the house
Huddles around you like a womb.

Part 4.
My Father hates this place.
Last night he told Mamma,
"Ma never liked me, wrinkled
old bag! Your father, neither.
I'm gonna tear that house down
And dance in its guts!" Later,
I heard Mamma crying into her pillow.

Part 5.
Now we're here, me with a wrecking bar
Slung across my shoulder as if it were a snake,
And Father packing a sledge. The porch
Thrums under his boots like a heart.
He kicks the door in, and the facing
Crashes with it. "Come on,"
He motions with his head. I stand,
Unwilling to move, and he bunches his fist
In my hair, and pulls me with him.

Flooring talks to me
As we walk on it. "Your Great Granny
Used to play on this piano
When I came to court your mother.
The Old Bag loved this monster.
That's why I'm gonna smash it first!"
He lifts the hammer, and finds
My hand on the shaft. Smiling,
He rams the handle into my chin,
And I back-peddle onto a trinity
Of rusty nails. Exquisite agony
tacks me in place.

The piano groans
When steel meets keys.
A second swing cracks
The canopy. A third
Takes off a leg, and it crouches
Like a wounded animal. "Reach
Me the bar, boy," he grunts
Through sweat, but I
am paralyzed. "Damn you!"

A wall stud snapping,
His fist pops my cheek, rocks me
Off the nails. Dropping the bar,
I stagger through the doorway,
And collapse on the porch.

Through fog, I watch him
Pick up the wrecking bar.
He stabs the piano. In slow motion,
Smoke curls, and I smell matches.
Swinging the bar like a bat,
He smashes off a second leg,
And the piano lunges forward
Onto his foot. Last thing I remember,
Fire blossoms above the piano.
The flames were corded
Like a woman's hair.

Part 6.
I woke up in the yard, my face
In Mamma's lap. The wet rag
Stung my bruises. She never once
Asked where Father was,
And I never said.

Part 7.
Forty years later,
I bring my grandson here
To pick blackberries
Among the foundation stones.
He says they taste like music.
The notes write themselves
On his face.

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