Jam Jar in the Freezer

Jam Jar In the Freezer

A thick finish of frost on the jar at the back,
is scraped by ragged fingernails,
leaving behind untidy impressions
of half-words and ruptured vessels.
A finger smoothes over the rime on the glass,
the warmth slowly exposing the rounded edges
of embossed glass plums and berries.

It had been forgotten,
behind a cold, ruby rock of beef,
beside the tray of shrunken, corrupted ice cubes
and became the distant neighbour of the potato soup
no one has ever cared to thaw out.

When it is held under a spate of temperate water,
the red inside ripens, blooms like a quick bleed,
reviving June, and puts dirt back on the knees.
Instantly, there is sweet, green peace and
the calm percussion of unseen insects,
a gentle clinch in the arrangement.

Strawberry: the last from a thousand summers ago.
An afternoon of hulling and gobbling,
fat rings of juice around criminal mouths,
tinting sticky fingers and wedging tiny,
xanthous seeds in the crevices of the teeth.
Each bite, a contraband kiss, a rocket to the moon,
a dream lit by sleepy delirium.

Held up to the light, one sees what rests inside:
a time that thrived without a lover’s touch,
a sense of absoluteness that has not been felt since.
There are kind-eyed phantoms and whispers of
forgotten voices that have been silent outside the jar.

Feet dangle in lake water tainted with algae and gasoline:
a surface smear of rainbows expanding
in a surface layer of creamed spinach sludge,
leisurely licking the lichen-covered rock.

Charcoal burns somewhere beyond
the tree line, heralding the slow cook of red meat
and the advent of fat-soaked paper plates,
while invisible children splash and play,
slowly bubbling in the sunstream.

And, from the grass, it is noted that the sky is alive
with pictures of governing gods, fleecy beasts
and far away countries that billow with smoke;
all of it safely distant, set against a backdrop
of beautiful, blue oblivion.

The taste of strawberry in the mouth,
the feel of dirt under the nails,
the smell of living without consequence.

The jar is fingered with misty longing
until the melted ice begins to drip,
and as it does, an effortless decision is made:
the freezer door is opened, and
the jar is placed once again in the back.