Trying to use the produce
before it spoils, the milk
a lost cause, dust rueful
on the mantle. So easy to think, if
only– but each year knows better,
better. How does the cilantro
just liquify? It’s cool
in the refrigerator.
What lasts and what does not?
Salt and biterness, but you can’t
cure a life. Maybe preserve it,
depriving it of air, and light,
keeping it for the sake
of possession, the fear of loss.
OPTIONAL POETRY 
Those last six lines are killer.
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I love how smart with truth this is. “you can’t cure a life”. This was necessary for me, as more than a slab of meat.
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Thank you– although writing out doesn’t preclude trying, I’ve found
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These were beautiful.
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Thank you, Mahima!
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