Earth Throat

The news drone, something about

a bunker, converted for wine. Fancy.

But I saw the padlock, rusted

heavy, on old splintered wood.

The taste of dirt in my mouth.

It used to smell like buried things,

potatoes going soft, damp canning jars,

a cold that sunk into your bones

even in July.

My throat felt like that now,

constricting.

Down the steps, into the dark,

where the air presses down

and the light is a crack

you can't quite reach.

Just earth and silence,

and the knowing

that you can't run

upwards

fast enough.