The last time we turn to look back
before we descend, we shade out the sun
with our hands. Slashes of orange sunlight
sizzle between our fingers.
Then we turn our backs on the blue, sunlit
world and climb down into the darkness.
We stay among the smooth rocks,
and the underground lake until we become
sightless things. Our eyes bulge and strain
until all hope of light is lost. Our eyes
shrink and at last vanish.
We become creatures of voice, of touch—
we reach out into the black .
and hold hands with what we find there.
Erin Pulsipher grew up in New Mexico and has since lived all over the American west. Her work has appeared in the Santa Fe Literary Review, Punch Drunk, and is forthcoming in Déraciné Magazine. She is an alumna of Creighton University’s MFA program where she served as managing editor for the 2016 & 2017 issues of Blue River. She now lives with her husband and their dog in Fairplay, CO.