The Basement

This is a poem that my brother Adam wrote, I think for a class in college. In my parents' house there is a root cellar, complete with dirt walls, crawl space that leads outside, and also a portion of the ceiling where you can see light from the yard above. I didn't mind going just to the bottom of the stairs to retrieve a can of corn or fruit cocktail, but to have to go all the way to the back to pick out some bottled fruit was too scary! When I read this poem, I was relieved I wasn't the only one who was scared of the basement. It is also the PERFECT description of that root cellar.

My name is called. Chills
run down my arms and my heart becomes
tightly clenched as I hear the words, "I need you
to go and fetch."

I go to the door that, but for the latch, would disappear
into the wall surrounding it. Once unlatched,
the door swings outward, releasing a grave-cool breath
that smells of earth. Next to the dangling
broom and mop, hanging by their necks, the light switch is found.
I strain to lift the switch, it stubbornly
refuses, and desperation causes my heart to pound.
After an endless struggle
that lasts only seconds, with a click
that loudly echoes, the switch acquiesces to light provide.

The stairs before me
descend, steep and three miles long. Each step
precarious,
the aging wood creaks 
beneath my light footsteps. Various strata
my descent mark; first wood,
then brick,
then stone.

Upon the last steps I duck my head; even my sleight
height is almost too much
to pass the overhang. I reach the rough
concrete floor and feel unseen eyes
register my unwelcome presence.

A hesitant step propels me
forward; to the furthest reaches I must go. On my left
I see the cans of peas, fruit cocktail and corn,
both creamed and kernel. The metal trash bin, once
its lid is pried, reveals an open, twenty-five pound
bag of sugar, pure and white. A small pinch is sweet, with a metallic taste, very light.

A sharp pop, then a muffled roar make me jump and turn
to face my foe. I find my fear is misplaced; the only things I see
are the water heater, and the furnace,
which gives off an orange glow. My eyes follow
a series of dusty brown-grey cobwebs
to the dark hole that leads to the crawl space under the house.
I quickly avert my gaze so that I won't see
the hidden dangers lurking inside.

Continuing past the boxes of holiday decorations,
I pause
next to the old highchair, yellow and white, with a teddy bear
painted on the back. His cheerful grin seems to mock
the memories of babies crying from fingers pinched by the tray.

Reaching above this torture chair, I turn on the old shop lamp. It's bare bulb reveals more webs, reflecting dully in the beam of light.
My goal is exposed:
a rainbow of mad scientist's bottles, arranged neatly
on the shelves, in rows.

First rejected are the bottles of thick, golden-brown gloop.
Applesauce is not what I seek.
Next passed are the yellow-orange hemispheres floating in amber syrup.
Apricots are not what I seek.
Flesh-colored halves, floating in clear liquid do not tempt me.
Pears are not what I seek.
In viscous purple, the marble-sized globes
of cherries are what I seek.

Two select bottles now hugged tightly to my chest, my pace quickens
as my steps I retrace. Yet I dare not run for fear of pursuit.
The steep steps I climb, my fears behind,
it is time for dinner.