Washed Rind

by Maria Surrichio

A fine line —
tangy on one side, tainted
on the other.
It doesn’t start that way.

Each brush with brine coaxes
bacteria, mold, the sherbety–orange
stickiness, the meaty smell

that lingers on fingertips.
Creamy, yeasty oozes
to barnyards and sweaty feet —
nothing smeared stays innocent.

When the fridge opens,
the rank aroma hits
like a conspiracy

among the sweet, simple virtue
of carrots and butter —
subversion
in a Sub–Zero.

A long marriage. He tells you
it’s make or break, this toxic bloom
between you, the deposits

it leaves.
It’s not the first time.
With each, a more complex pang
of flavor — the secret note

of maturity that teeters
between vitality and decay,
can turn gritty

and bitter. How to tip
to pungent ripeness, to name
what melts, growing close
to the tenderness of rot.