Cold Storage

The light in the fridge has a nervous tic,

flickering over the jars of pickles and yeast.

I reach for the back, where the shadows are thick,

and touch the plastic remains of a feast.

It’s a white takeout tub, heavy and cold,

sealed with a lid of opaque, frozen mist.

I know what’s inside—something growing old,

a curry we shared, a night we un-kissed.

I should dump the contents and scrub out the grit,

but I can’t bear the smell of the air hitting the rice.

It’s easier to leave it, to just let it sit

and preserve the mistake in a coffin of ice.