Sardines in olive oil

The year-end receipt arrives like a drunk uncle at the door,
spilling secrets nobody asked for.
Not the six-packs that go down like apologies,
not the chips I crush like small vendettas against the day,
not even the bruised bananas I buy to pretend I’m still trying,

just sardines in olive oil.

Tin after tin, silver bodies packed tight as commuters,
sliding out oily and shining,
the way a confession might if it had bones.
I pop the lid in the parking lot sometimes,
fork straight from the can,
oil dripping down my wrist like slow, expensive tears.

Jesus wept, yeah,
but he’d get it, the small, briny mercy
of something already dead, already dressed,
no need to gut the day any further.
No grill, no pan, no promises of better meals tomorrow.
Just the salt, the slick slide of flesh,
the way the spine gives under the fork
like it’s finally relieved to be finished.

I keep buying them.
The receipt knows more about my hunger
than any lover ever bothered to learn.
Tin by tin, I eat the ocean’s quiet leftovers,
and it tastes like survival,
which is to say:
not beautiful,
but honest as hell.