The cedar chest is heavy in the knees

The cedar chest is heavy in the knees,

a box of things I was supposed to keep.

I lift the lid and feel a sudden freeze,

a draft of air that’s been too long asleep.

A scent comes blooming out—not quite a flower,

but something sweet and sharp like metal heat,

or maybe rain against a brickwork tower,

or starch and apples on a linen sheet.

I can’t quite put a name against the cloud

that tastes of mothballs and a basement floor.

It wraps around me like a heavy shroud

and leads me back to a forgotten door.