Poetry
Chrysotile
Keith Ekiss
Miners trammed ore,
packed burro trains from Ash Creek,
loaded deposits on boxcars
headed for Hoover Dam,
for gaskets and insulation,
theater curtains, pipe and tiles,
paper and millboard.
Quarried asbestos
the only name fit for this town.
Filaments of serpentine won’t burn.
Chatoyant, hollow and pliable,
incombustible linen, mountain leather.
Inflammable tensile strands
catch in the tissue of breath—
lung-burden known after latency.
Nothing of worth without blasting cap
and pickaxe. Miners’ throats
turn dark as canyon walls,
drip-flooded cavern.
Hell was already on earth—
they were digging away from it.