Cold Storage

I’m standing in the light of the open door,

staring at the stains on the vegetable floor.

Behind the jar of pickles and the jelly near the end,

is a white plastic tub that I cannot defend.

The lid is bowing upward, a slow, plastic swell,

holding back a secret I can already smell.

I haven’t touched the handle since the power went out,

and now it sits in shadow like a lump of cold doubt.