Three Days of Knowing

I knew it was there before I opened it—

the smell had been spreading for three days,

seeping and creeping, polite about the intrusion.

The container was mine.

Rice and something, something fine,

now a different color entirely,

a different state.

Beneath the lid, something's grown.

Something that's made its own small home,

soft and patient and mine.

I held it at arm's length.

The distance was immense,

but it didn't help.

I made this.

Weeks ago. I dismissed

this into the dark.

The lid fogs when I breathe.

I can't help but believe

I'm watching something I created

finally decay.

I closed the fridge and walked away.

Left it there in the gray.

Some things you don't take back.