“Grand Illumination of the Crystal Cave”

By the time I got to visit 140-something years later, 

the name wasn’t nearly as glamorous, reduced to a simple

“Crystal Cave” of Kutztown, Pennsylvania.

Discovered by accident, like penicillin on a petri dish 

of farmland, blasting for limestone with no knowledge 

what resided underneath. 

An opening appeared

along with the idea that it could be an attraction,

500 feet across and two stories high of crystalline structures, (remember, 

stalactites are called stalactites because they are 

TIGHT on the ceiling!) limestone layers and milky white icicles

formed by dripping water, winking in the dim light. (and stalagmites 

are called stalagmites because you MIGHT trip over them! The tour 

guide said that and I will never forget it.)

Tours were opened

and quickly refined, oily fingers of exploration

disrupting the formations (don’t trip don’t trip don’t trip, that's thousands

of years of work to destroy) that put an empty plot of land

 in middle-of-nowhere farm county on the map. Shining rust walls 

welcomed a marriage once all measures were in place, 

a piano of all things accompanying the bride. 

She ditched the extravagant 

train for an ankle-length dress, a 1920’s showing 

of defiance that conformed to her grooved, 

uneven aisle. 

Popularity survived the Depression, 

grew even, into a theme park full

of Model Ts and bright yellow school buses 

across time. I like the smell of all things, is that weird? An earthy, 

damp smell of the underground that you could never find 

anywhere else. The tour guide says we are turning the lights off 

and I clutch the railing. ‘Put your hand up to your face’ she says 

and I see nothing. Next to me is the smalltown farmer 

who first entered the cave. We are nervous together,

blinking into the same blackness. I wonder

who else is beside us while he feels alone— 

lantern lit uncertainty, wedding bells, 

and a child’s astonishment leading the way.