After Diego Rivera’s Entrada a la mina, 1923
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.