Lost Creek Cave

Anna B. Sutton

The open mouth of it all. I tried

to enter, but decided against it

when the elderly professor leading us

into darkness slipped and fell.

He was fine, though I imagined

his dusting bones shattering

against stalagmite, his body cracked open

like an egg pushed out of its nest, amniotic rubble

consumed by patient copperhead. I imagined us

deep in the cave, guideless, our fingers

running the slick mysteries of rock face

in search of something familiar. No, I waited

outside. And yet, months later, here I am,

following a different man down the slick tongue

of limestone. He leads me to a waterfall

to show me the places where light tears

through the cave like the flesh

of a ripe melon. I wouldn’t call it trust

but experience. I know our bodies

can navigate the darker spaces together.