My grandfather had nine fingers
Ron Riekki

and lives.  He also died
in the mines.  It only took
a finger.  And his lungs.
Then, later, waited for
his life.  The mines are
patient.  The way that
we took its ore so slowly.
And the mine took back.
Lives.  So many.  So
slowly.  I remember
seeing a pack of miners
walking home after
a shift.  I was so young
that I still believed in
everything: ghosts and
witches and stars and
ogres and happiness.
And these miners,
with their bodies
costumed in soot
so thick that it felt
they were shadows,
not men, as if they
had turned into night-
time.  In the window,
I watched them like
I was seeing the dead.
They looked magical,
holy.  A train went by
and shook the house,
increasing the crack
that ran along our
ceiling.  I had this
feeling that I was
going to become
one of them one
day, that I’d be
buried inside its
massive hill that
blocked the sun,
the mountain of
ore near our house
that kept growing,
kept aching for our
bodies, and we gave
them.  I watched
the shadows walk
by below my second-
story window and
felt my shadow leave
me, to join them,
these men who would
sleep like they no
longer had a soul.
 
 

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​                                                                                                                  MAY 2026