Storage Life

I’ve been eating takeout on the sofa

because the kitchen table feels like a border crossing,

and I don't have the energy to negotiate the salt.

But the fridge started humming a different note,

a low, vibrating growl that forced me to look.

Tucked behind the mustard and the half-empty carton,

a jar of peaches has decided to revolt.

The liquid is a cloudy, opaque yellow,

and the fruit is pressing hard against the glass,

the lid bowing upward under the pressure of its own decay.

When I turned the metal rim, it let out a sharp, sour hiss,

a tiny explosion of gas that filled the room

with the smell of something that was sweet until it wasn't,

and I just stood there with the jar in my hand

waiting for the air to clear.