The Princess Bride

By Nancy Goldberg

My daughters sit snuggled on the corduroy couch,
a pottery bowl painted with splotches of blue and yellow
brushstrokes
overflowing with buttered and salted popcorn
occupying neutral territory between the cushions.
They are held captive by the princess, the farm boy,
a gorgeous gown, a pirate, duels of wit and brawn.
Sometimes, giants and revenge–seekers battle an army and win.
Sometimes, a farm boy can arise from being “mostly dead.”

I look at my daughters:
One is just starting to roll her eyes at my words,
shocking me daily with her newly sharpened voice,
her desire to wear skinny jeans and fish–tail braids.
Her older sister looks like a grown woman from the neck down,
and has freshly earned knowledge of how to navigate Geneva’s
trams,
but still has the full cheeks of girlhood marked by acne.

I’d like to encase them in a castle surrounded by a moat
until they’re ready to be buffeted,
but for now, they’re spellbound by a kiss,
as they watch the farm boy save the princess from death by blade.