The Dessert

A heavy, sticky trap disguised as dessert.

First comes the crack of the burnt-sugar crust—

a geological excavation of amber and lies.

Beneath it lies the swamp.

The forbidden lake of corn syrup and glucose,

holding sixty-two thousand pulverized pecans

hostage in a state of terminal goo.

One bite and your teeth are no longer your own,

reassigned as permanent residents

of this sticky architectural marvel.

It adheres to the roof of your mouth

like a mortgage contract,

silencing all table conversation

for the next three business days.

Grandma calls it “nutritious.”

The cardiologist calls it an act of aggression.

You call for a glass of tap water

and a pneumatic drill.

And yet—

as the sugar coma gently pulls you under the table—

you reach out blindly in the dark

for just one more sliver.