In a Pickle (Jar)

The blush of lovers’ spring /dawns /the unshelving of / pickle jars.
To pluck ripe admirer(s); consider/ their peach cheeks, palm cup cherry chin.
All impatiens to bloom. All ache from wilt. So, before rot, drown them/ in vinegar.
My giddy pulse preserved, for potluck treats and afternoon delights. Save from stale for another occasion. I never had a callous grip. Or enough pressure to twist lids loose, so please don’t you go trying.
These jars, a holding space. I can find us the quietest corners. Pruned from second-hand lovers our silk silhouettes dressed in ribboned reflections. Time /could lace us in cobwebs, bejewelled in dust. And I promise, the sour aftertaste of vinegar softens into a sweet tang (after a while). This is all I will give.
So don’t you go trying. Tender touch, pry my preloved bruises and blemishes. Seek to ease with homemade remedies. Kiss my mirror mouth, lid still latched. This is all I will give.
It’s a shame. Really. Last spring. I adorned my plate with fresh harvest. Allowed the suckle blood from orange drape down my chin.
You would’ve loved me.