Pickle

A Poem by EMMA NIHILL

I wonder what it would be like to be preserved in a jar of brine.
A clear, glass jar, without the reprieve of closing your eyes.
I suppose jellied skin, bones would not be capable of movement in such
Cramped quarters,
Ears would be blocked by swilling salt,

Uncomfortable. Certainly.
Quiet, pleasantly so?

This jar (and you) could be kept in a museum, examined
By small children,
Or maybe you are in the house of an old man, on the mantlepiece
Beside his wife’s ashes.
Do you look back? Can you see through red veined, filmy burning eyes?

Or do you try to blink?