The Dessert

The orchard spun backward, reversing the sun,

Where a clock melted down to the weight of a stone,

And the kitchen was carved from the rind of a dream,

Floating downstream on a river of cream.

Upon the pine table, beneath a glass moon,

Sat a lattice of twilight, woven too soon.

A Cherry-Berry Peach Pie, breathing and deep,

A harvest of memories pulled from a sleep.

The cherries were rubies that bled from a vault,

Where time had dissolved in a teaspoon of salt.

The blueberries hummed with the pulse of the tide,

Hiding dark galaxies deep in their hide.

And the peaches—ah, peaches—were embers of gold,

Radiant warmth for a world growing cold.

I cut through the crust, and the pastry sighed,

Revealing the chambers where summers reside.

No fork could hold it, no plate could contain

The syrup of sorrow, the nectar of pain.

For eating this fruit was to taste yesterday:

The shadows of childhood that melted away,

The echoes of laughter that danced in the hall,

Now baked in the center, defying the fall.

I swallowed the mirror, I swallowed the sky,

The sweet, heavy surrealism of the pie.

And as the last ember dissolved on my tongue,

The world was unmade, and the story unsung.