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Sinkhole

by Brent Goodman

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It's not the pure descent
I come for, not the earth
opening in these slow Kentucky foothills,
the long humid exhale which cools my face
as the guide explains how caves breathe.
It's not the way our small group
mutely follows, inching our way down
this chest-narrow chasm
into the dark, scuffing our knees,
our palms, lowering ourselves
through knuckled stone crevasses--
60, 80, 130 feet. It's like descending
into the gills of a giant fish.

A room opens beneath us
and as we touch bottom,
casting our dim head-lamps
on dripping limestone walls,
we learn the language of darkness
is more beautiful than expected:
Gypsum Flower, Onyx Draperies,
Soda Straw, Cave Bacon. Rainbow Flow Stone.
It's for the newly named I've come, miles
and miles of it, the long, belly-crawling passages
which meander out from this main
dirt-packed cavern, absorbing our thin light
and not giving anything back. It's for
these blind crayfish clicking their small morse
through the dark--this pale fish, motionless,
hanging in a pool of filtered water
who knows the world through a single nerve.

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