The Tarts

I wanted this to be like a fairy tale

walk in the woods before kids,

careers, blood clots and bone mets,

the legend of a week we picked

berries near an old inn on a village

green, rolled out butter crusts,

folded in Callibeault, and arranged

fruit in circles and stars like symbols

Merlin’s cape. Years gone with a wave

of a wand, forests on fire, Greenland

melting, radiation drizzling from Japan,

and we're trapped like children

in a Grimm brother's tale, our parents

dead, guardian angels called in sick,

ventilator moaning, three of us chained

to chairs, the fourth Poseyed to a hospital bed,

our crew waiting for the witch to boil us.

With closed eyes we hold hands,

and I chant the story of the tarts

for the umpteenth time, the smell

of pastry baking, the feel of fruit

and chocolate on our tongues,

wishing the heartbeat of words

might cast a spell strong enough

to bring our world back to life

Disclosures:

Dr. Berlin is Senior Affiliate in Psychiatry at the University of Massachusetts Medical School. E-mail: Richard.Berlin@gmail.com. His most recent collection of poetry, PRACTICE, is published by Brick Road Poetry Press.