Preserves

Preserves                                

                                                           
You didn’t cook hot enough, didn’t
set. A bright pickled clot
floating in seeds and pulp.
You spilled, gelled
fruit wobbly on broken glass,
my feet. I sat down,
legs folded under.
I pressed on the space I emptied
when I broke a Mason jar
over your head.
The rumbling in my gut
tender as a peach.
I thought grief would feel
different from hunger.