Poetry By
Carol M. Carpenter
Published on: 12/8/2007
Reunion Sunday
at the Methodist Episcopal Church, Keweenaw Peninsula, Michigan, July 31, 2005 My great-grandfather's bones remain at the bottom of the deepest shaft, in the farthest tunnel where Cornish miners once chiseled copper from the black rock walls of the Central Mine. I have come to remember him, a man I never met, and other miners who once walked beneath the earth in hobnail boots with worn soles. As the preacher tells their stories, I listen for the cadence of their lives, the lilt of their picks tap-tapping and the slam of hammer heads breaking up copper chunks that fall to the dirt like so many renegade orange-red suns. My great-grandfather lost his way, some say, when he traced the purest, the richest copper veins to their source, a place where other men had not been. Others claim he chose the underground where fires fueled his rage when companies walked away from the open mouths of mines and bent men and all foundations tumbled onto hard, hard ground. On the last Sunday in July, I listen for the silence of my great-grandfather's pick.
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