Burial smells like I expect,
when I descend into a barrow
behind the stables of an old farm,
wet soil, salt, and old books
I crawl on my elbows, dirt
shaking into my hair
fingernails catch the earth
I half-somersault into
the small tomb at the end
and laugh in the darkness
because I am curled
like a lemon peel
in this sacred space, where
someone’s bones once lay