What You Store Things In

The shed smelled like it had been waiting.

Six burlap sacks, stiff, folded wrong.

I lifted the first one, hesitating

at a smell I couldn't place but knew—not strong,

just settled. Something damp and old.

The kind of smell that means the thing inside

was stored past using. One sack lost its hold

and split, and dirt and beetles hit my stride—

across the toe of my work boot,

burlap threads caught in the jacket cuff.

I brushed them off. We moved the rest. The route

to the curb was quiet. Short enough.

I drove home with the smell still on my hands.

I washed them twice. Still couldn't get the name

for what it was. Something the land

holds for a while and then reclaims.