A block of it

A block of it,

cold in my palm,

like solid ice, though soft to the nail.

I dropped it in the pan,

watched it disappear to clear oil.

It spread itself thin

over the jars,

then cooled,

a quick, clean film.

A perfect seal,

unfeeling.

The unbroken skin

of quiet canning.

Holds things in.

Holds things out.

And if you try to get past it,

it just cracks.

Doesn't bend, just breaks.