Canning

The fridge is humming now, but the milk is sour.

I’m tossing boxes that smell like wet rain

and paper pulp. I’ve been at it for an hour,

sorting through the sugar and the grain.

I found the jar. Three years of sitting still,

a gift of plums my aunt had put away.

I had to dig the knife against the seal

to see if the fruit had finally gone to gray.

The paraffin came up in a single piece,

curling like a yellowed toenail in the sink.

It left a ring of hard and cloudy grease.

I looked at the jam and didn't want to think.