Timothy Kleiser

Lost John

           – Mammoth Cave, c. 445 B.C.

Autumn.

               Sun-sink and shadow.

                                                        Wind,

and the bobbing, glaucous heads of

rattlesnake master.

                                   Cricket whine.

Wingflap and stir.

                                 A pregnant deer

edges toward a moss-strewn rill, drinks,

pauses to consider a sound,

and drinks again.

                                Haltingly, the

water navigates an outcrop

of shale, then slips the edge and bursts

below.

            A limestone mouth.

                                                Cave breeze.

The tang of dampstone and guano.

Deep inside, blind beetles.

                                                Spiders.

Cane-reed torches weave braids of smoke,

tell light-riddles to the dark.

                                                   Chert

and gypsum.

                       A hand wipes a face,

then brings a pinch of sunflower

seeds and hickory nuts to a

mouth.

             The mouth receives the blessing,

humming.

                   Seed-chew and sigh and song,

as the hand continues mining.

A sudden crack, a cry, a crash

of stolid limestone.

                                   Then silence.

Somewhere nearby, a stagnant pool

of water is upset.

                               Startled

cavefish briefly dart, then go still.

Torch-flames choke and expire.

                                                          Darkness

settles, blacker than Mammoth black.

Timothy Kleiser lives in Louisville, Kentucky where he teaches philosophy and literature at Boyce College. More of his poetry appears in Atlanta Review, Literary Matters, Able Muse, Modern Age, THINK, and elsewhere. He holds an MFA in poetry from the University of St. Thomas, Houston.