Dear Fred: A Letter by Jessica Young

They tell me it is not entirely unlike the intensity of breaking
             crème brulee—a quarter-second of guilt, desire, both

because the cauterized top will bend to you, and because you
             destroy something whole. And I think: they have not

visited your grave, if they use dessert as a way to grasp what
              you did. If they had felt with their knees the living

grass, they’d know it is not entirely unlike anything, would be
              lost in the words, as we’re meant to be, in this language

we created. This labyrinth we escape into when words to ask
              for what we want fail our lips. These days I want only

chocolate layer cake. Not because life is layered. Not because
              they have the same smooth finish. Not because of sugar,

nor poetry, nor because metaphors can be scraped from every
              surface. Simply, it was the last sweetness on your tongue.

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