Culture

The light inside the fridge is surgical and thin.

I moved the jar of peaches to the back

and saw the forest growing under the glass.

A thick, grey fur has swallowed up the fruit,

a soft and quiet rot that took its time

while I was busy staring at the walls.

The compressor cut out with a sudden click,

leaving me in a silence so heavy

it felt like a hand on my mouth.

I’m afraid of the seal, the pop of the air,

of seeing what happens when you stop

paying attention to the things you meant to keep.

Sometimes the warning is just a smell.