by Ian Haight
In the in’s and out’s of closed spaces lit by a finger-length glow-stick, only an air tank keeps him feeling safe as he crawls, cramped, tapping a steel hand-stick on a cavern floor. A muck-covered bottle breaks. A cloud comes watering out like a pink amebic djinni. Frenzied, he huddles for respite.
He wants to fuck and fight for hours, to treat Bruce Lee-like men as cowards: his eyes paralyze their holds as he rolls their invalidic heads in his lap. It takes hours, sometimes days for the ghost to pass, to remember how his father stood, holding a camera, ready to help, ready to enter.