Root Cellar

The canning jar in which you placed me

(before I was born)

has grown snug on this dark, cool shelf.

The ribs in the glass that form letters and words

have embossed my contorted and compromised flesh,

have bent my bones into soft ivory curls.

The pickling solution has caused my teeth to yellow

and the lid with the ring presses down

where my skull should have grown together long ago.

It’s questionable whether I will keep

through another winter.

Megan E. Freeman