A Copper Country Miner
Speaks with Christ

Sure I saw him. The day I worked a double.
Southeast Shaft. Division Two. Underneath moles,
underneath worms, underneath corpses.
Almost a mile below the world
of fresh air and snow. I was heading
from Tina’s Pub to Pete’s Place. Still moving
with Ascension’s gift of energy that revitalizes
us miners every time we crawl out. There he was
by Pete’s Place. Standing around. Long hair. Beard.
Shabby, scanty clothing: nothing anyone
who knew anything about Copper Country winters
would wear. Reminded me of a stray dog—
humble, desperate—looking for a place
he could belong to, bewildered he couldn’t find one.
Yeah it was Christ all right. And of all days.
When everyone’s yelling about peace on
Earth, good will t’ward men and screeching
about silent nights and pear trees. Kind of wonder
if he chose that time of year on purpose.
He told me he’d been watching people
trade and invest. All the time calling it giving.
And killing healthy evergreen trees, then
throwing camouflage all over them to
hide the fact they’re trees like his old man intended
for them to be in the beginning. And all
the time using his name to excuse their
damn fool behavior. I asked him into
Pete’s for a beer or wine or something.
But he said he had an appointment. He rolled
his eyes and head skyward. I understood.
Just before he vanished, he looked at me
square with a hounddog smile, shook his head,
and mumbled something about telling his old man
to scuttle the whole fucking thing. Yeah.

ISBN isbn 1-59661-014-X
43 pages $9