Cave Pearls

By Jeanine Stevens

You tumble and lift, moist pink

incubation, caldron of young moons.


Unseen by knights, pilgrims,

even armies overhead,

you rumble in deep, dark, wet.


Under my flashlight, you squirm

in a whiter bath, a hint of pale birth.


An adolescent’s footprint,

male they say,

dances nearby in soft clay.


Random fingers flute reddish ridges

on the rock wall, hesitant

to touch dark vestibules.


Tallow torches made of Silvestre Pine

quiver. A flutter.

Someone says murciélago!

We duck under the flap of black wings.


I imagine the ardor of light

splitting the next archway,

hands daring to slip in and send


a tiny quiver up to this street

where now I sit late, sip my café noir

and wonder at such complexity.


 Pech Merle Cave, 2004

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