The pickle jar's silent menace

I nudged it by mistake — a jar

bristling with cold brine and green ghosts.

Inside, a fog swirled—thick and slow,

the kind of quiet that presses down,

bubbling faintly like a trapped thing,

a thing better left alone.

The metal lid, swollen, a balloon about to pop,

and me holding my breath,

fearing the snap, the sudden hiss,

that chemical stink that burns the eyes.

I let it be, shoved back to the dark,

the fridge humming its indifferent tune.