The carton bloats like a drowned lung,
shivering in the back of the fridge
beside a jar of pickled eggs and a dead lime.
It smells of a wet basement in 1994,
a thick, sour cloud that tastes of iron
and the way you looked when you left.
I pour it out, and it lands in the sink
like a heavy, white curd,
a slow-motion landslide of forgotten calcium.