The Hiss in the Dark

It’s been sitting behind the flour sack

for three weeks, doing the heavy lifting of rot.

The red cabbage has gone a bruised purple,

pressed tight against the glass like a thought

I’ve been trying to keep from getting out.

When I crack the lid, the air gets sharp.

It gives an aggressive, tiny hiss,

the sound of something changing its mind,

becoming a thing that’s harder to miss.

You have to let the gasses find a way

or the whole thing might just snap.

It’s an ugly, bubbling kind of work,

keeping the salt in the trap.

But tomorrow it will be something sour

and bright enough to wake up the tongue.

Funny how much time you have to spend

waiting for the air to be wrung.