What's Becoming

The jar sits in the back corner

where I've been pretending not to see it,

where the light is dim and the air doesn't move.

Something is happening inside.

Bubbles rise to the surface and pop,

leaving trails like the jar is breathing,

like it's alive in a way I didn't plan for.

The smell is wrong—

not spoiled,

not fresh,

something in between,

something in the process of becoming.

I open the lid to look,

and the smell gets stronger,

gets deeper,

gets into my clothes and my hair.

It smells like time working without my permission,

like something I started and forgot about

is finishing itself anyway.

The color has changed too—

darker now,

more complex,

more like something that has suffered

and come out the other side.

I close the lid.

I put it back in the corner.

I don't know if it's supposed to be like this.

I don't know if I should stop it or let it keep going.

So I leave it.

I let the jar do what it does.