Monsters in these caverns, and a guide will warn of one or two
but always forget the third. They arise, slink in and out
of the night, and we call it dance. Parasites that we’ve been
taught not to splash out merely stream through these veins.

Stalactites and stalagmites, we scale,
because our grandmothers knew
the importance of climbing our furniture.
In inevitable hollowness, we encounter strength.

But I can’t say I like that in my dark mind, fires have
carved off my ashes.
There’s a frailty to hearts that lift so hard
turning weak so soon.

Still, I cannot say I mind being home for crawling
and winged vulnerable, with all the secrets that arise
and slink out from the night. For with what else
would our suffering tango?

I have learned that there is a calcite the color of charcoal!
I’d never wanted the preciousness wasted on diamonds,
all hardness, sharp edges, sparkling, reflecting. Leave me soft.
I wish to absorb all light.

first published in Wishbone Words