Preservation

I rolled the foil like I was sealing

something that mattered—

creases sharp as a closed mouth.

The chicken was already cold.

I wrapped it anyway, folded

the edges the way someone taught me,

though I can't remember who.

Silver catches light like a lie

that hasn't been caught yet.

In the fridge it glows, preserved

but not saved, the plate behind

the milk, the light that doesn't reach it.

By Tuesday there will be something

growing under there that I won't look at.

I could unwrap it. I don't.

I could throw it out. I fold the door shut instead.