What I wanted

after that last sip of pink elixir
was to take her hand in mine
and relive my seven-year-old memory

following one sister, two cousins, and an aunt
through a stone castle
nestled in a Connecticut forest,
over a drawbridge
and along a shaded path

when, already filled with wonder and delight,
we discovered a cool and calm river
that could wash away the
hot humidity from our sticky summer skins

and without even running the idea of shame
through our innocent minds,
we stripped off our clothes
and took our birthday suits into the water,

splashing away with our made-up games,
relishing in every second of each other’s excitement,
basking in the glory of childhood.

What I received

after too many heavy swallows,
a single moment of longed-for glory
in the exhilaration of a blue moon snow

was my perfect world taken away in a sentence,
a wee-hours confessional that chipped away my soul,
and the realization that
I am all grown up

and I can never wash away the truth
that hides like a red-eyed predator
in the depths of the forest
that surrounds the castle
that is a fairytale of
everything I ever wanted.