Bio Note: Prior to the pandemic, I was piecing together a living substitute teaching and test proctoring. Given my love of animals, I should have become or married a veterinarian. Given my love of travel, I should have become a pilot, however I would likely be grounded now anyway. I am often accused of overthinking, but this proves that at times I have underthunk.
A poem in April or any day, a dessert in the desert – mouth-watering mirage or a sweet ending, a trifle, a sponge to sop up life’s syrupy spread, a meringue, a cake of a thousand layers, cream-filled or fruited, an ice or a slice of the pie, an afterthought or a finishing touch, something to take the night’s edge off, something light when the rest of you is sated.(Originally published in Peacock Journal)
Like champagne spilled, uncorked grief flows, breathless – you told me the wine breathed on its way to the glass(Originally published in Right Hand Pointing)
Pedicure for my Father
I firmly gripped your foot, trying not to bruise. In the clipper’s jaws your fungused nails crumbled like chalk disintegrating at the touch. I did not recoil as I might have, once. You watched me, wary of disgust, but you should know: I’d rub them eagerly, like a lamp, if I could only wish them back.(Originally published in Misfit, Issue 25)
©2020 Betsy Mars
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