One year, I blew up people's land

making two dollars more than minimum wage but

less than the white boy from the mountains who worked

with me on that Saturday with overtime

when it rained cats and dogs and I had no boots

and stood in the water puddle

that turned into an icy cold pond

because the yellow monster track drill

that cut through bedrock to make way for the highway

had breached the water table so everyone's well went dry

their water surging to the surface

robbing all but the construction site

of life and water.

The track drill relentlessly pummeled the earth

biting, grinding, boring, roaring

spitting grey rock powder as it chewed holes

into the land, into the bedrock of the neighborhood

coating me and the white boy from the mountains

and everything else with the bitterness of

a fine ground dust of granite and red sediment

and generations of lives built on the land

while our crew filled the holes with grey tubes of

dynamite gel animated by copper wires

that would blow up a widow's flower bed

and decimate the lilac bush that her mother-in-law

gave her back when she got married

long before her husband died.

The interstate highway plowed through

farmland, goat yards, orchards, tobacco crops

old people's tomato gardens and chicken coops

corncribs, barns, and backyard playgrounds

old ladies muttering about God, Jesus, the government

while sitting in their front porch swings

the chains squeaking squalling squealing squawking

the ladies crying surely this is Hell on Earth

when the Blessed Angels fail to prevent

the blasting from the road construction crew

blowing up the widow's lilac bush

and that young white woman from the city

standing in the yard next to the emptiness

where the sweet peas once climbed the latticework

and the mint bed that used to sweeten summer tea

mouthing the polite words to explain why.