It Moves When It Wants To

The recipe said one cup, room temperature,

as if room temperature

is something I've been maintaining.

The jar was cold from the cabinet.

The molasses had seized up hard,

a brown mass against the glass,

going nowhere.

I ran it under hot water for ten minutes.

Just stood there with the tap going,

the glass warming under my hands,

watching the level begin,

finally,

to shift.

My grandmother would have known

to take it out the night before.

She would have had things ready.

The kitchen would have smelled like Saturday

before she started.

The spoon came out with a ribbon of it—

long, slow, not breaking,

not letting go of itself,

stretching toward the bowl

in its own time,

its own specific idea

of when.

I'm alone on a Saturday.

I'm making gingerbread no one asked for.

I'm holding a spoon over a bowl

and waiting

for the molasses to decide.