It never rains
in the Gingerbread Forest
because that would be catastrophic—
houses turned to mush,
the occupants smothered
beneath a slurry of crumbled walls,
delicious but deadly.
You’d think
that endless sunshine
would be a lovely thing,
but it’s not.
Even filtered
through leaves and branches,
the light is too constant,
too bright,
too much.
As for those trees,
deprived of rain
they are forced
to draw from wellsprings,
anything that lurks
deep in the ground—
water, nutrients,
decaying bodies,
whatever has been buried
and left to rot,
forgotten,
like the hopes of lost children
longing to get home.
Beware of too much sunlight,
of beautiful houses
made of ginger, nutmeg,
cloves, and sugar icing,
of indulging yourself
with all you crave.
If you find yourself trapped
in this nightmare,
don’t bother with breadcrumbs—
just conjure up a powerful rain spell,
and a desire for destruction.
Valerie Hunter worked at her college library as an undergrad, where she occasionally read the new acquisitions when she should have been shelving. She now teaches high school English and maintains a classroom library with a sadly low circulation rate. Her poems have appeared in publications including Room Magazine, Wizards in Space, and Frost Meadow Review