We sat in the stope, a small room
chiseled and blasted into the stone
1,800 feet below the surface.
Imagine, he says, it is 1899.
First the guide turned out the light.
Then he blew out the candles.
As we sat in the dark, he told us
that only those with a good memory
of how they got in here
would make it back out alive.
Then he turned back on the light.
Sometimes in a darkness,
we feel ourselves trapped,
find ourselves unable
to grope our way back
to some beginning.
In our attempts to emerge
we become increasingly lost.
Sometimes in a darkness,
we come to believe it will always
be dark. How could we know
to hope that by some strange
luck or chance or change
a light might appear
so bright that we would never
again lose our way?
So like you, to go deeper than 1,800 feet for this tour 🙂 I wonder about that last line in the first stanza, it would sound more natural, I think, to say “Then he turned the light back on” despite the preposition at the end. Of course, the word “back” so close the the previous line could be the issue too. I like the refrain of phrasing that closes out the poem, those two “sometimes in the darkness…”