The Unsalvageable Head

Held my breath opening

the fridge, knowing

what festered in the green drawer.

It was lettuce, or what remained,

a wet brown pulp, slick

with rot, a dark intention.

That smell – damp earth, yes,

but sharper, a warning bell

that didn't ring, just sat

and stunk, a forgotten self

liquefied into grief.

Couldn't even face

to heave it out yet.