The Dessert

A crust crimped by hurried thumbs,

fluted in the quiet hours of afternoon,

resting upon the cooling rack like an old secret.

Inside, the dark obsidian filling sets—

glossy, opaque,

a still lake mirroring nothing

except the passage of a slow sun.

We slice it with a silver knife,

cold metal cutting through the weight of yesterday,

yielding a wedge of midnight

lifted gently on a spatula.

There is a gravity to this dessert.

It does not ask for celebration;

it asks only to be tasted,

to be understood.

A dusting of cocoa on porcelain,

the fork breaking the fragile skin,

and then—

the slow, velvet unraveling on the tongue.

Rich as memory,

bittersweet as the things we never quite learned to say.

We eat in silence,

watching the shadows lengthen across the table,

letting the dark sweetness coat our teeth,

grateful for the quiet dark,

and the pie that holds us there.