Everything Unpoured

The jar has been in the dark for a year,

sitting behind the flour and the salt.

The lid is welded shut by its own fault,

a sticky crust of sugar and of fear.

I want to finish what I started here,

but the day is thick and moving slow.

I watch a spill on the counter go

toward the edge, a dark and heavy tear.

It takes a minute just to see it lean,

a slow-motion crawl across the stone.

I am standing in the kitchen all alone,

waiting for the space that's in between.