Mar
by C.J.Sellers
Your eyes are the stairs I’d never again go down,
not even when the light was on.
Grasping, before the hidden switch was found,
safe, from the stairtop I’d peer down to where world-light
streamed through dusty darkness from some glassy cinder-blocks.
The light stopped far short of the old oak cask lording the unturned dirt
floor, long ago soaked and soaked again with bourbon–still there,
its brine souring the gloom up to the floorboards with a vintage musk of neglect.
Your vacant eyes remind me of the silent poverty of that place
and its aberrant hole in the far wall I’d once ventured too near.
I’d stood before it assaulted by the stench of age
from the crumbling crawlspace. Where did it lead to?
If I’d sunk my hands down in that dank,
forbidden earth, would rotting hands have
reached back to snatch and pull me through?
I might have tried it just to know the rest but you rescued me
with your scoldings and Grampa followed with his threats
of fetching a good switch to teach me a lesson
not to go down there again. You said
you were convinced I didn’t need it yet. Instead,
you sat me in a chair with a cup of beer and stroked my hair
’til I forgot. It chokes me now to see you lost.
You’ve gone in and shouldn’t you know better?
Isn’t this the lesson that you kept me from?
I watch you absent there and wonder if
now I should be saving you
but no answer comes and so
I press your withered hand in mine and
pray I find a switch.