Coal, Baby

In Pochahontas county the hills spread themselves,
Easy access, a trollop without panties.
Men, black ants, swarm into, under and through
The dark earth, lifting may times their weight--
Tons of shiny fire rock.

After it's over and all the coal stripped,
After the last quiver of sound grunts from spent
machines,
After wasted trees and lost limbs,
The hills stand naked; long, black gullies
Streak across their sagging bellies--
Stretch marks upon holy ground.

*Anne C. Barnhill’s work has appeared in a number of literary magazines and anthologies including, most recently, The Antietam Review, and RACING HOME: New Stories from Award-Winning North Carolina Writers. Other publications include the story, “Washing Helen’s Hair,” from the Grammy-nominated anthology, Grow Old Along With Me, and “The Swing,” from Generation to Generation. She has received an Emerging Artist
Grant, a Regional Artist Grant and a writer’s residency at the Syvenna Foundation in Texas. She has been selected as a Blumenthal Reader twice and her stories have won several awards, including the Porter Fleming Fiction Award from the Augusta, Georgia Arts Council.