Andi Stout
Ossify
Sure-footed like a mountain
goat eating purple buds
off sun-ripened milk thistles,
on storm rounded rock, she stands
in block heel gallery boots
at the cliff’s edge,
where a body is first
involuntarily obligated to jump
or fly. Stentor fiddle resting
on her shoulder,
under her chin—bow drawn,
this is where I see family
resemblance—poised, back
to the camera she’s set up herself,
left knee relaxed, toes
angled northwest.
Although only cousins,
or perhaps because,
I see my mother in her—
black and white,
plain as day
with just the memory of color
soaking through, moss tufts
seeping in between stone pores,
unyielding. A mountain squall
pushes over the chain,
tangling her hair.
Mine Canary
Sitting in a wooden cage hanging
off a nail at the entrance,
like a Davy lantern,
waiting for my miner, it seems
only appropriate to stare at my feet—
reddy-orange like Sugar Maple leaves
turning with the chill, toes curling
Poplar branches polished smooth,
not much scale build-up today.
What else does one do in this situation?
Some pray, and I hear their songs:
Holy-Mary-Mother-of-God
in-the-name-of-the-Father-and-of-the-Son-and-of-the-Holy-Spirit
Our-Father-who-art-in-Heaven-Holy-Mary-Mother-of-God…
…hallowed be thy name
…hallowed be thy name
We will die as our fathers did—in this mine,
or maybe another,
its black mouth endless, consuming
like humming birds at dinner time,
spewing out black rock exchanges
in stuttering streams, pick axes and hammers
chipping, chirping
tinging
pinging
temporary trusses swinging
up as men empty out mountain bellies.
Today, or maybe tomorrow
I will smell what none of us can breathe—
carbon monoxide,
methane pocket,
toxic gases collecting in flight sacs.
In this situation, what else does one do?
Some pray, and I hear their songs:
Holy-Mary-Mother-of-God
in-the-name-of-the-Father-and-of-the-Son-and-of-the-Holy-Spirit
Our-Father-who-art-in-Heaven-Holy-Mary-Mother-of-God…
…hallowed be thy name
…hallowed be thy name
Chests seizing and tightening
like unattended kite string tangled around the leg
or the rasp of sudden cold snaps hanging
in the lungs forecasting winter,
dizziness settling in before sleep—
What else does one do in this situation?
I know why some pray, and I hear their songs:
Holy-Mary-Mother-of-God
in-the-name-of-the-Father-and-of-the-Son-and-of-the-Holy-Spirit
Our-Father-who-art-in-Heaven-Holy-Mary-Mother-of-God…
…pray for us sinners
…pray for us sinners
I know why some pray,
but I offer no penance,
no pleas for protection. It seems
only appropriate
to stare at my feet—toes curling
Poplar branches polished smooth—
reddy-orange like Sugar Maple leaves
turning with the chill,
not much scale build-up today.
The shift whistle howls.
My miner slides a bit of biscuit—
soaked in honey, homemade—
between the bars. I eat.
Then, we dig deeper.
River
Like tributaries,
you curve—
sweeping in (hugging earth, filling gaps
between particles
that can’t quite seem to fit)
then,
out (taking soil, loosened debris). You call
me “beautiful.”
And I want
to believe you.
Deep Cracks
Like feathers from a down pillow
on a bursting fluff,
clouds hang in the air
above Table Rock on Canaan Mountain.
The last rainfall collects in shallow reservoirs,
pocketing cliff faces,
leaking through clefts, folds, feeding moss
taking root at the core.
Germinating in the dark, defying rules
of growth, it sprouts without soil
to anchor it in place,
spreading without permission—ignoring
borderlines,
territory markers,
because moss has no use
for arbitrary binaries and restrictions.
It doesn’t care
about the rigid stoicism
of Maple trees,
leaves turning
from amber to orange—dying elegantly,
or the impatience of the killdeer
distracting predators from its nest
with a broken wing act,
wildflowers at the mercy of a valley breeze.
Moss permeates
the porous, always growing,
always creeping
just near the edge. Someday,
it will hug the cliff it reaches for
without fear of falling.
Andi Stout is an Appalachian writer from West Virginia. She is the author of Pushcart nominated, Tiny Horses Don’t Get A Choice. Andi’s poems have appeared in Connotation Press: An Online Artifact, Still: The Journal, The Longleaf Pine, Junoesq, and The Miscreant. She earned her MFA at West Virginia University in Morgantown, WV. Andi is now an Assistant Teaching Professor in English at Penn State University.