Cellar Bloom

Finally, the boxes.

Grandmother's hoard, down here

where the lightbulb swings,

a pale, weak eye.

I pull one labeled 'Linens - Summer,'

the cardboard soft, giving way.

And the air that spills out –

it’s thick, damp concrete,

and something else, a forgotten fruit

gone soft, then sweet, then rot.

It coats the back of my throat.

The dust motes are tiny galaxies

in the single beam.

This feels like the last real task.