No Label

The container was behind the milk carton,

fogged plastic, contents liquefied and green,

no label, no date, no memory of me

putting it there. No map of my hands

doing the shopping, the shelving,

the leaving behind. The smell came first—

sweet and wrong. The particular rot

of something that's been forgetting

what it was supposed to be. I don't

remember buying this. I don't

remember shelving it. I have

no record of this decay in my mind,

just the physical proof in my own

refrigerator. Something I did

while I wasn't watching. I threw

it away. The smell lingers.

Every time I open the fridge I reach

for milk and look at the empty shelf,

wait for the smell to come back,

wait for the evidence to reappear—

proof that I'm capable of this,

that I can make things rot quietly

in my own house without knowing.

That I do this. That I will again.