Brine

The glass is heavy on the counter, a cloudy weight

where the cabbage has turned a bruised, violent shade.

I twist the lid just enough to negotiate

with the pressure the salt and the dark have made.

Tiny bubbles crawl up the side like a slow leak,

a quiet, chemical breathing in the kitchen air.

The smell is sharp and sour, a physical streak

of something rotting into something better there.

It takes weeks to change the nature of a leaf,

keeping it submerged so the oxygen can’t win.

It’s a patient way to handle a certain kind of grief—

waiting for the acid to finally settle in.