Posts Tagged ‘mine’

Mine Tour



We sat in the stope, a small room

chiseled and blasted into the stone

1,800 feet below the surface.

Imagine, he says, it is 1899.

First the guide turned out the light.

Then he blew out the candles.

As we sat in the dark, he told us

that only those with a good memory

of how they got in here

would make it back out alive.

Then he turned back on the light.


Sometimes in a darkness,

we feel ourselves trapped,

find ourselves unable

to grope our way back

to some beginning.

In our attempts to emerge

we become increasingly lost.


Sometimes in a darkness,

we come to believe it will always

be dark. How could we know

to hope that by some strange

luck or chance or change

a light might appear

so bright that we would never

again lose our way?



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That wind always tries
to undress me … today
it took my name, too.


It’s hard to be
serious when you’re kissing
my elbows.


What’s that? It’s only
supposed to have seventeen
syllables? But the sky today deserves at least twenty-five.


Erase the word mine
from these lips. Replace it with


Tonight the stars
are just stars, the lines that link
them all undrawn.

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Not today, I said,
no snacks in the car for kids
who don’t eat their breakfast,
but here,
I said,
and extended my empty right hand
to the back seat, Here
are some pretend snacks
On the radio, Cake
was singing a song
about wanting
to love someone madly
when my son shouted, Mine,
and my daughter burst, Mine,
and a strident battle ensued
and real tears began
to splash on invisible
snacks being snatched
and seized by four empty,
grasping, hands.

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