The Brine

It’s been sitting in the dark since the week

I thought I could save everything by salt.

A Mason jar tucked behind the bleach,

making its own slow, sour weather.

In the middle of the night, it burps.

A wet, rhythmic gasp of air

pushing past the rubber seal.

I check the foam under the glass weight,

pink and angry and alive with rot

that tastes like the start of something else.