If you canβt count your onions, what can you count
my grandfather used to say. He said a lot of things.
Among the other miners he was legendary:
when no more than the thought of the pink crumple
of his infant daughterβs body came to mind
a glow would swell in the pit, the men
would mayhem bauxite by the light
his tenderness emitted.
From βThe Curfew” by Stephen Sexton