"I'm available to go mad now." -- Valerie Fox
More or less. As if I can wear this mock turtle
for a toupee and not know it. With heat
the adjective changes dead skin cells:
so many rumors now about rubber edibles
the nightlife of so-and-so that I've grown one
myself over the hookah phone. Why scratch
vinyl rabbits or mosquito bites when they recur
naturally in wonderland? I never wanted
to partake of the Gryphon's nipple rings: I still
skim over the look on his face that said uh-oh
someone forgot the Rorschach blots in
the lettuce again. It wasn't included in halves
and half-knots of the square dance but he
wouldn't believe I unglue my eyelashes with
flat-iron steam and collect little Hatter dolls for
my wish list. I didn't appreciate how that tart
divided my neighbors into decimal problems:
they've been banging on the door ever since
wanting someone's garden sprinkler or ex-stack
of cards. And here I am telling everyone how
I contracted herpes at a such a young age.
Inevitably
they closed the path through the woods.
In old woodpecker holes, squirrel
are dying. The local police knocked
on one door after another.
Illness makes the young lose balance,
dive headfirst into rabbit-holes.
A girl had been missing for days.
The urine of search-and-rescue dogs
permeate the grass. She was
last seen wearing her mother's clothes.
Too late visitors are warned against
picking cyclamens, mushrooms.
Around the spot where she was
found, yellow lines play a strange
ring-a-ring o' roses. At night a labrador
still howls, unsettles the peace.
All that remains of the body now
is a candy wrapper marked: Eat me.
And She Ripped the Turtle Soup Recipe
It was her husband's secret.
She could smell his after-sex cigarette
from it folds. Alice: how else
could she have called this paper cut?
A kitchen draws out many
sharp knives. Like valentines folded
into soup recipes. She knew
there was more where it came from.
He said he could cook easily
for 500 guests. What is a stolen tart
made of? She emptied what
recipes she could into the saucepan.
His. Hers. Their children.
Singed pepper choked the curtains
brown. She tossed in
the cayenne. She shook the curry.
She pestled his golf balls,
his blue pills. And still all she could
smell was the other woman's
ejaculate on her bleeding finger.
rabbits
(from _An Encyclopedic Guide to Counteracting Bad Luck_)
Seeing rabbits is roughly equivalent to riding ghost ships. The danger lies in the pasta sauce. Figure out where the caterpillar came in. Keep leaf blowers at a safe distance.
A rabbit's foot key chain, even when converted into Christianity, should never be taken in a tumble down the stairs. It may mean ears and whiskers overnight for an insomniac. If the tumble is particularly violent or the key chain rusty, pretend to be two people fighting over the same plane ticket for all the wrong flights.
Homemade rabbit stew indicates that somebody out there has been poisoning you. Look under the power tools of a loved one. If in doubt, order Chinese and pretend to go ochre for the army.
Noticing similarities between the Italian and Mexican flag and hearing somebody
call it rabbit may actually be in your genes. To avoid further contamination, maintain eye contact with an inflatable porpoise for at least 20 minutes every four hours for seven days.
If forced to run after a white rabbit in a story, make sure you put your favorite sneakers into pictures or conversations. Remember, a cake of mud stuck on your sole is still a cake.
Decapitated lilies
and all because
I wouldn't believe that story
about Alice, a stack
of cards with origami teeth,
because you often tell lies-
there are no red queens in the cellar,
no orange marmalade on mirrors,
no vanishing point between
my hand and yours-
according to the child psychologist,
you only seek attention,
seek this look
on my face when I realize
you've been using my scissors
because you are
convinced these flowers
are between us, like those pictures
of the Hatter you buried
in the yard; and because
you were six then and now
twenty-eight, I watch
behind the screen door,
because I know
you will offer me the petals
on a plate, like pages from Lewis
Carroll's book, because
you say you love me
and you think I should stop
locking you in the closet every night.
Arlene Ang lives in a small town outside Venice, Italy. Her poetry has
appeared or is forthcoming in Eclectica, Forklift
Ohio, Madhatters' Review, Pebble Lake Review,
Rattle, Tattoo Highway and Unpleasant Event Schedule. She is
the author of "The Desecration of Doves" (iUniverse, 2005). Website:
www.leafscape.org/aang