The Dessert

A skillet of buttered ambition,

brown sugar pressed flat against cast iron,

rough-edged and heavy with promise.

We baked it to mend a quiet Tuesday,

waiting for the center to steady itself,

for the heat to blur the lines

between crisp edges and a soft, yielding heart.

Now it sits upon the wooden board,

a pale pie of fractured chocolate

and pale gold dough.

We carve out wedges with a silver spoon,

not waiting for it to cool,

not caring that the steam carries

more nostalgia than sustenance.

It is too rich, perhaps.

Too sweet for the hour we are in.

Yet we eat it standing at the counter,

watching the amber light fade from the window,

tasting the salt against the sweet,

wondering when comfort became something

we had to bake ourselves.