Entering the Mine
Carolyn Kreiter-Foronda
Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Contest 2024 (view all the winners)
Honorable Mention, Margaret Reid, Traditional Verse
In 1923 Diego Rivera began painting 124 frescoes on three floors of the Ministry of Education building in Mexico City. These murals reflect the Mexican people at work, their land, struggles, triumphs, and festivals. Rivera longed for a day when everyone would exist in harmony, without class distinctions.
A rooster's crow swallows what's left of night.
The lantern I clutch flickers as I enter
the hill's gashed belly.
I offer a blessing to the underworld, pray
to its ruler. No need to take chances,
I tell myself, swinging a pick
into rich veins of silver. The stench
of Devil's breath fills my lungs.
I cough. I remember Papá
hovering over my bed and kissing
my forehead. "Don't follow me
into the mines," he warned.
"The fumes will turn your lungs to stone."
A five-year-old, I squeezed
his hand like a treasure.
At fourteen, I toiled in fields, built up
my muscles until they commanded
crops like rain filaments.
At eighteen, I followed Papá through narrow
streets to the mines, bowed my head
before descending,
each of my brothers heaving a wooden beam
as if carrying the cross of Jesús.
Now, I lean against a rugged wall,
take shallow breaths, tell myself the stale air
won't harm me. I stare into darkness,
see again my father slumped
in a corner like a pile of dirt. This time
he doesn't speak but floats
toward me, a banner unfurling.
From its seams, water pours over crude,
rough nuggets. I touch his blackened
fingers, shout his name
into the moonless night as we lift him rung
by rung up the ladder. His lantern flares
like fire. Mi padre. Mi padre.
