CAVE TOUR

               by Leslie Clark

You should have known not to enter the gaping mouth 
of that Australian cave. The cool, damp passages, squeezing 
the flesh, clothing whispers, a slithering against rock walls.  
A scarlet peony of panic blooms in your chest.  Not enough air
to suffice for this chuckling crowd, you are deprived.
Ahead, the maddening cheerfulness of a teenaged guide,
her voice practiced in spiel and tone.  Too young
and blonde to know of darkness.  You crave to–what?
Careen through the dimly lighted path, your voice
a screaming echo in the cave? Become a bat, at home in this
forbidding place?  Deep breathe and calm, get through somehow.

What vaguely remembered terror does your brain perceive?
Some childhood game, thought funny by the others?
A power blackout during the hurricane you survived
as a kid, huddled with extended family on the living room floor
while rain bullied its way under the door, and
candlelight quivered in the caterwauling of wind?
Some nameless darkness from the time before you were, 
or anticipating the nothingness of the time 
when you leave?  You force your eyes straight ahead,
concentrate on exchanging one breath for another, creep 
toward sight of sunlight at the end of the narrow path.