She wrote it in blue pen one cup

She wrote it in blue pen: one cup.

The p looped like I knew it would.

I held the jar and tilted it up

and waited longer than I thought I should.

The ribbon came down dark and slow,

catching the light above the bowl.

I had nowhere I needed to go.

Just stood there. Let the minute roll.

A minute, maybe. I was thinking

about her hands on a Sunday pan,

the hum she'd start and leave, the sinking

feeling when she'd begin

something she wouldn't finish. She did that.

So do I, I've been told.

The molasses reached the bowl, and sat.

The oven was still cold.