The Dessert

A crime against the sacred laws of baking,

Or perhaps the greatest thing

since the invention of stretchy pants.

Let’s be honest:

The pecan pie was already rich enough

to require a warning label from the cardiologist.

It’s basically liquid sugar holding hands with a tree nut,

nestled in a crust made of pure regret.

But then,

some mad scientist standing in a kitchen at midnight,

surrounded by empty wrappers and shattered diets,

looked at a bowl of melted chocolate and said,

“You know what this needs? More variables.”

Now behold the beast:

A glossy, tar-black obsidian shield of cocoa

hiding beneath a forest floor of caramelized nuts.

You slice into it,

and the plate groans.

Your pancreas whimpers softly in the corner.

It is an ambush of the senses.

The pecans try to maintain their dignity,

pretending this is still a civilized Thanksgiving,

while the chocolate drags them down

into a decadent, fudgey swamp of no return.

You take one bite.

Your eyes roll back so far

you can see what you were thinking about in 2012.

A single tear of pure, diabetic joy

rolls down your cheek.

Is it a pie?

Is it a candy bar with a crust complex?

Is it a legal weapon in twelve states?

Nobody knows.

Just pass the whipped cream,

and nobody gets hurt.