Esther to Lester

She stands outside the mouth
in fear—it tastes like dirt—
a gummy red, soulful clay soil.
She passes through

this entrance daily
to travel into that deep, pitch,
sometimes dank, place
inside herself

where she plucks poems
from vines. Too dangerous now,
this passage might cave
into her, she might crumble

into a thousand tiny pieces
of a broken heart.