Sweet Ms. Blackberry, Rest In Peace

I keep the eyes of the jars of jam close
Their sweet innards a sticky reminder
Of the mold that pervades all things
With filthy spores that creep and crawl
Mild little ladies of lather
Of green mildew and stains of clover.
'My my, a visitor,'
Inquires the jar of blackberry jam.
She has no eyes but for the lettering on her side;
"serving size one tablespoon"
"6 grams of sugar per serving"
"made with real blackberries!"
Her only recognizance of danger
Too late----the spores have infiltrated her metal head
Through the spiral of her mouth
And her vision becomes blackberries
And the tang of wine fills her collapsing consciousness
As the tendrils of puff
Form a tiara atop her decaying brain.
She had a sad funeral,
When I one day took a look within her,
Toast in the toaster and a small spreading spoon in my hand-----
I saw her corpse
Controlled by the malice of the mold
That temptress.