Noah’s Best Molasses
The jar tips over,
black syrup spilling across the floor,
slow as grief.
I try to mop it up,
but it clings to everything—
the tiles, my hands,
the soles of my feet.
By the time the floor is clean,
the room smells like a funeral—
but I have it on good authority
that the animals were saved.
Whew.
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