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Stained

Irene McKinney 
I’m stained with the iron-red water from the mines
and I’m stained with tobacco and red wine and
the rust of perpetual loss.  Near Mabie,
West Virginia I pulled off the narrow road one
morning on my way to work as a substitute teacher.
I wanted to stand there awhile to see how bad
it was, my shuddering in ten-degree weather
on my way to something that couldn’t
possibly matter.  I had quit smoking and I felt 
like a squirrel about to be shot, looking around
in a frenzy.  There was a squirrel there, not
afraid at all, turning a hickory nut in its
hands and ignoring me.  I must’ve looked
like what I was, a woman who had lost her
bearings and refused to admit it.  It was
another day in my history of posthumous
days, another day when nobody touched my body.
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