Your sweetest love asks to borrow some silence
& as if on cue all of the forgotten hurts, preserved
in previous canning seasons,
begin to erupt in the cellar.
Every lidded mouth full & pickled with insecurity gives
over to the swell of rancid things
pushed into the dark for much too long,
an exorcism of jarred ghosts,
an oozing display of fireworks coating the walls in a
layer of vinegary mistrust.
As you apologize for the noise & promise to keep this
messy doubt from sullying the peace you’ve promised
them, an especially potent wound rockets thru the floorboards
trailing a comet of sour molasses & lands
on your patient love’s lap
still whistling from the pressure.