Clearly labeled resentment,
I open the jar anyway
–since she and I made it–
and I miss her
the old her
and the
then me
we were together once.
Ignoring the skull & crossbones,
thoughts twist but
the lid of the jar
is stubborn and stuck in place
–like her—
and it take several more thoughts
of her
–none of them good
and all of them bad—
to get that damn jar to give even a little,
and in those few seconds
. . .
in those thoughts
the current she pops out of that jar
–large and in charge and suddenly and
weirdly unexpectedly, too–
like those stupid gag peanut cans
you give as white elephants,
the coils of hurt and thwart
and righteousness
(we both added)
–spring out
dripping with seething,
and stewing in congealed
bitterness,
smack me in the heart
and leave me breathless
–so hard I cap that jar
doubletime–
screwing bits of its coiled contents
into the threaded top in my haste,
and toss it into
the back of my simmering mind,
wishing it wasn’t in my pantry at all.
The next jar is also well-marked,
fancy calligraphic letters against
pastel gradations
spell L-o-v-e,
(and what a spell it was)
and I can’t resist
opening that one, too,
–though the jar is ancient—
since I miss him terribly
–the terribly how he went—
and the us we
were together once.
Disregarding the expiration date
–because some things never die—
I test the top on this one,
and it gives easily
–too easily—
like I did myself once,
and the contents of the jar expands through my fingers
and consume me
adding just the right amount of tears to the inside
to grow
like those gagging foam worms
that expand when
you add water to them
and before I know it,
the composition of ingredients
changes
–like the boiling point of any number of elixirs–
or maybe just the contact with fresh air,
and I am lost in overflowing
pain, remorse
and loss
and it’s all I can do to
even locate the lid to that jar
–blinded by my stupid tears–
before the mess we made
causes third-degree drowning,
and once tightened,
I set it carefully back on
the biggest ledge of my shattered heart,
right in the middle of its emptiness
–and wish I thought to stock up
before that jar had been
discontinued.
The last jar
that makes a difference
is different,
and is unfailingly labeled you,
and like you it’s
dusty and
it’s BIG
and the label is peeling
–but intact—
and it’s been in there as long as I can remember
(which isn’t saying much these days)
and I think of you,
now and again and
from time to endless time,
and the we
we never got to be
and I miss that hunger
I had for you once.
Thoughts spiral
into familiar dreams,
edged with unmixed nightmare,
and the stopper
stops stopping
–a feature?
–a failure?
–a facet?
of this jar I remember to always forget,
and the contents of this jar
surprise
(even now)
in their lack of coalescence
–chunks of longing,
desire and reverence,
float
next to despair,
shame and regret
(nearer the bottom there)
and all of it contained
and fully separated
a nod to its disparity
–and I reach into this jar
for that
which came before,
–to see
if I can sieve
the good remaining
free.
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