What good is it to open jars,
Long sealed on pantry shelves?
Rimmed in dust
and encrusted in spider webs?
If I took them off the cellar shelf-
(shuddering at the wispy touch of spider silk)
would the light reveal
preserves or rot?
Could I hear the hallow sound
if I pinged the lid with my knuckle?
Would the dull thud reveal
black sooty strings of decay,
sliming the jar sides?
A seal broken by years,
The stench of you long gone in the ground….
Or could I hold it to the light,
swinging on the end of a rope,
where the memories would be rich ruby red.
To climb the planks
of stairs,
feel the breath of cellar rock
at the nape of my neck.
To stride to the light
and hold the memories high.
Maybe then to examine for cracks,
leaks of air, bulging sides.
Sniff for foul,
Would the memories hold with examination?
Or would the first touch of air,
dust the insides,
just as I am sure your body now resides in dust…
I take the church key,
apply with surgical precision,
pry the lid back,
and wait…
Whiffs of crème de mint, Tangueray, Oreos,
flypaper spit, and cigarette smoke,
on a late night bakery on a prairie train…
shooting stars in August melting across a Kansas sky,
Then it is gone…
Long since dead, residing in your coffin
And I in my glass jar memories…
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