The back of the cupboard a forgotten tin

The back of the cupboard, a forgotten tin,

Grandma's jam, maybe plum, or some wild berry.

Sealed with paraffin, thick and white within,

a brittle disc, a brittle memory.

It kept the air out, kept the sweetness in,

a stubborn guard against the creeping rot.

But time had won, a crack along the skin,

a milky fracture on the life it got.

And under it, I knew, the syrupy dark,

a kind of preservation, holding fast.

But also, maybe, just a fading spark,

a flavor that was meant too long to last.