Free Verse by Sarah Dooley Page A

Dogwood. You can’t see past the fence.
    â€œIt’s terrible,” Phyllis says. She makes a noise with her mouth, the same one she made the day I broke her guitar. “Just terrible. Almighty.”
    I think of Ben. I hurt. “Did people die in the mine today?” Like there’s a chance she knows something more than the TV guy.
    â€œThey ain’t told us yet, Sasha.”
    The man on TV dressed better than any of the men he’s praying for. I picture the view from
his
neighbor’s porch. The door would open and a serious-looking man in a suit would walk out. No scrub-brush beard. No friendly wave. No tripping over baby shoes. No coveralls. He probably doesn’t even come out of his house before eight. If he were my neighbor, I would leave for school every day without ever seeing him.
    I think about Hubert, about how we were supposed to work on cleaning the outbuilding today. I wonder if the Dogwood mine is going to close. If it closes, Hubert won’t have any place to work. He might not be able to pay me, and then I’ll never be able to afford a GUI-tar for Phyllis.
    â€œI hope Hubert doesn’t lose his job,” I say.
    â€œLord above,
Hubert
,” Phyllis whispers, without taking her eyes off the screen.
    â€œHe looked mad when he came in,” I say.
    Her head whips around. “He’s home?”
    â€œHe came in cussing from the truck. Just now.”
    â€œGod Almighty.” She sinks into her rocker, lifts herself back up, and swipes her knitting yarn out of the seat before sinking down again. “God Almighty.”
    The TV is showing footage now from somebody’s shaky cell phone camera. There is sunshine. There are flashing fire-truck lights. I stare and stare at the fire-truck lights. In front of them, a woman with her hair in a messy bun says her husband didn’t want to go back to the mines, not after the big collapse. She doesn’t have to explain, because we all know she means five years ago; we all know she means Hardwater, the collapse that killed Ben. She says her husband wanted to take classes on how to fix computers, but they had bills. They had babies. He didn’t have that freedom. She twists and twists her hands. She says she’s holding out hope.
    The camera cuts back to the man in the suit. He shakes his head slowly. His mouth tightens into a straight line. “We’re all holding out hope,” he says, without a speck of hope anywhere in his voice. He sounds like he already knows he’s going to be reporting a different headline in aday or two, one without any hope left. Across the screen, red block letters pop up, in case anybody’s just tuning in: THREE WEST VIRGINIA MINERS TRAPP ED BENEATH GROUND.
    And over his shoulder, the flag, and on it, our state motto:
Montani Semper Liberi
. Mountaineers are always free.

8
    Me and Michael stayed up so late that
Tuesday that Wednesday came and we were still on the couch.
    â€œMichael?” The TV was on, had been on for hours, but my voice still sounded loud in the room.
    â€œWhat.” He was distracted, didn’t even look at me, and there was no question in his voice. I wasn’t sure he even realized I was talking, so I wrapped my fingers around his forearm.
    â€œMichael.”
    Now he forced his throat clear as he turned to look at me. We hadn’t bothered turning on the overheads, and in the dim light from the TV, his face looked lined and tired, shining with sweat. He looked older than I’d ever seen him look. “What, Lightbulb?” His childhood nickname for me, because I had so many bad ideas, like dropping glass dishes or dressing up the cat.
    Now that I had his attention, I couldn’t remember what my question was. Maybe I didn’t have one at all. Maybe the silence was getting to me and I needed his attention, even if I didn’t have anything to say. I swallowed, pinned by his painful gaze.
    â€œCan I stay home from