Coal Blue Tattoo

I dreamed of my papaw Huff, pale skinned and hatless,
Dressed in blue and gray, walking on Silk Stocking Row sidewalks.
Van Lear did not own him.
He stood straight and proud and tall
In the days of his youth—as yet unburdened.


Why it was he did not notice the miners’ faces as they passed
I did not know.
In my dream they were as clear and real
As the blue of Papaw’s eyes,
And the manner in his stride.


Time was on the move in my dream.
Papaw was to and from and to and from the drift mouth, unseeing,
Like the mine ponies gone blind out of the tunnel,
Their trembling flesh dust darkened,
Then washed in white bright light outside.


Papaw passed unaware of fellow miners’ faces.
He saw their backs bent,
Bowed like his
From breast auguring
In low coal.


But I could see the miners’ faces
And the way their pupils narrowed—adjusting to the light.
I saw faces—
Both sides of their faces.
All were temporarily darkened from the coal dust.


Some, though, wore a permanent mark
From being too near the powder blast,
Unexpectedly strong—
So close
That the skin of their faces had been forever tattooed coal blue.


We see what we choose to see.
Papaw did not notice the coal tattoos his buddies and he bore in my dream.
I wish he had had more choices.
I wish I had dreamt of him— his face unmarked and his strength restored.
I wish I dreamed in black and white.