Between the King and the Queen of Swords
fell Wonderland’s Hearts, unraveled like red muscle
off the ribs. No more
Cheshire, face moon-shaped, who leered tautologies. No
brazen Duchess—refusing to be led, the Swords obliged her
with their lead. To drown Dormouse
was easy work. Escaped bubbles sedate from snoring, deaf
to March Hare’s pedaling legs. I heard the Hatter
joined their league. Always willing to move one place
along, if his hands kept clean.
I had to run. What did I owe
a world that made no sense whichever monarch
gurned and roared for trial? Card men killed
no differently for sere white roses than
for loyalism. Save me
your goddamn sensibilities. The looking glass burned
beacon for me, and real life’s crushing gravity
is enough.
If in dreams I stalk White Rabbit
into burrows, out of schoolyards and birthday parties,
no matter. Someday teatime will have to satisfy
again, once I forget
the way they poured it in that place, a halved cup
shimmering open to the air. Perfect tensility.
The bottles here don't read ‘Drink Me,’ but they at least
will shrink the memories. In time it has to be
enough.