barely a glimpse
before she disappeared
in the dark woods
like a mythical nymph
he stared long
into the gloom
hoping for a sliver of light
but she was gone
and he was left with memories
of butterfly wings
and fireflies
the taste of dusk
on his tongue
the cool grass under his feet
her warmth still tingling on his fingers
he stood at the edge of the forest
he would return often
searching for a myth
looking for a flash
of lost hopes and flavored dreams
his nymph
carrying his laugh away
and his heart bursting
at even the thought of her

The Mother I’d Like to Be

She planted jelly beans and licorice in hopes of growing her own candy-land. She read the back of cereal boxes as bed-time stories and made adventures out of nutritional information. She hung artwork framed by hula-hoops. She only drank water from the hose. Her wig was always worn askew. On purpose. She reveled in the stories of her youth, but only ones that were entirely fictional and involved unicorns and rainbows and cloud cities. Her favorite game to play with her children was leap-frog but when she played, she pretended she was a tadpole. She crafted makeup from flowers and Kool-Aid. When she was feeling a little too good, she would close her eyes, rock violently in a rocking chair for hours until she felt good and sea-sick. Her bed was a custom-made large matchbox, complete with a striker. She took a two-hour siesta every afternoon and wrote her best stories after awakening. Her house was lit by hoards of fireflies that happily supplied their light. Her children never wanted for hugs and kisses because her love for them was as boundless as her appetite for old movies and off-color jokes and brownie-filled doughnuts.

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