The Jar


I like to call it my glass pocket. The jar that holds scraps of paper, twisted, bent and floating to the top. Crinkled memories saved. Sketches of celebrities doing novel things in far off places. A picture of David Duchovny eating McDonalds on the Coney Island ferris wheel twirls in place. Diana Ross singing Stop In The Name Of Love to Isis.

Put a lid on it, they say.

But I can’t close my pocket. Its memories might shatter.

The Jar


Blue wax contained inside a jar melts only to the bottom. Clinging to the sides of something solid, it molds from sticking sturdy to dripping hot. What was once rigid with the cold after touch of blue food coloring is now sinking. It waits to melt, clinging only to glass walls of visibility. There is curiosity in the flame that burns.

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