I hide under the leaves,
tear a stalk, bite.
The acid crunch of it,
the rise of tears to eyes,
spit to cheeks.
Green, pink or red,
no ripeness ever touched this sour.

And yet in your kitchen,
you tame it with sugar
and the crust you roll out by rote,
no measurement or thought,
just your fine hands
absent humming,
soft Crisco and white flour.

You will always be rhubarb to me,
the dark frames of your glasses,
the mouth we share, with its
taste for this particular pie.
How you taught me the tartest taste,
the sharpest bite
comes from sweetening the sour.