They set it yesterday. I watched them pourThe wobbling liquid into its glass mould,Translucent, promising: The recipe called forPatience, and a larder running cold.
But jellies fail. Mine's still a slop of red,Refusing to cohere, to find its form.The other's jelly trembles, perfectly deadTo doubt. Mine sweats in a kitchen warm.
What separates the set from the un-set?Some minor calibration of the heat,A fraction more gelatine, and yetIt's failure makes my life feel incomplete.
Tomorrow I'll tip it down the sink, most likely.The world moves on. Jellies set, or don't, indifferently.
