In the main cavern, an LED-lit sign tells us
about the fish. Down here, in the longest
known cave system, creatures evolved
away from the light, went translucent,
grew skin back over their eyes. He says,
What are you thinking, and I say, love, as in,
this version of me you love is only
the surface, pines and a damp June wind.
We’re holding hands. I’ve been in a bad mood
since I practiced driving manual, and he saw
I can’t clutch or shift gears. I thought,
maybe this is the reason he leaves me.
He suggested a trip to the national park.
I guess it’s dangerous to love so skeptically,
but I’ve seen him ruthless—last winter,
the mice, how he set out pots
of oil-skinned water to drown them.
When I was eight, my grandfather had a stroke,
then stopped taking his blood-thinners,
then had another stroke. That weekend
I saw my grandmother standing in the garage.
Her grieving mouth had broken out
in terrible sores. The metal door had grated shut,
and she was backlit by its dim sliver. And I didn’t
go to her. I stood in the dark and watched.