I know what's in there

I know what's in there.

I don't know what's in there.

Three weeks on the back shelf—

I've been too afraid.

The condensation on the lid

is thick and opaque now.

I can't see through it to bid

goodbye to what was allowed

to change. To ferment. To rot.

There's a smell moving slow,

like an avalanche that's not

quite ready to go.

I could open it. I could look.

I could throw the whole thing away

without knowing what the crook

inside became. I could say

I didn't know. I could pretend

that leaving things alone

is mercy. But the end

is that I've always known

it was there. Waiting. Changing.

And I'm not ready

to face what my own arranging

of neglect has made ready.