1858, my botullistic bride,
birthed from an ether of sand
and soot
sieved by mr. mason himself.
I dream of your curvature,
screwing your lid,
gripping your walls,
letting the shards you break into
become
my song.
Oh holder of things!
Collector of goods!
Keeper of secrets and pickles alike!
Oh joyous jars!
Oh jangled jars!
Oh old and new-found-fangled jars!
I use you wrong and botulism.