At Room Temperature

I didn't want to go.

I said I would. I'm making the dish.

Jar tilted over the pot,

arm already aching, the heat on,

the burner waiting,

nothing happening.

I stay there.

Ninety degrees. More.

The kind of stillness that starts

to feel like the jar is making a point.

Then it gives—

all of it at once,

black and heavy, hitting the bottom

too hard, a streak up the side,

one drop on the stovetop

I wiped ten minutes ago.

The smell starts immediately.

Scorched. Sweet. Already wrong.

I wipe the stovetop again.

I stir. I turn the heat down.

I'm going. I'll bring it.

Someone will say, oh, you made this,

and I'll say yes.

The whole kitchen smells like something burned.