The knife cleaves  

the center of the pastry,

The rhubarb pie oozes,

the filling spilling out of the pastry like lava,

Overflowing the dainty edges of the pie plate

The carefully circumscribed ridges

can’t corset the lush, voluptuous fruit,

 

The plate cleaves,

Straining to contain the simmering juices

Beneath the pastry’s steady, subduing influence,

But pastry is known for flakiness,

Not consistency.

 

Cleaving apart,

Cleaving together,

The pie wrestles itself,

Beholden to the whims of the kitchen.

The pie rests on the stove,

Cooling, cooling, cooling.