Rehoming

Staring at the field of brown paper grocery bags
spooling out across the cold basement floor, each one plump
with old clothes, books, dishes, useless trinkets,

I see the first half of my life as an enfoldment, a sink hole
sucking the world of objects towards my center,
a panicked collecting driven by a strange hunger,

as if seasonal candles were nuts to store for winter,
as if burgundy sweaters were necessary,
as if cookbooks were love.

And now, I feel the weight of this abundance,
long to peel away the heft
of acrylic, ceramic, plastic, and paraffin.

Not so easy now, I’m too aware of landfills, of real need.
Now, each item demands careful rehoming,
a responsibility working in reverse.

*

Erin Olson is a counselor and poet from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Her poems have appeared in a variety of publications, including Third Wednesday, Sky Island Journal, and Anti-Heroin Chic.