Down the Rabbit Hole
Falling, the sky shrinks,
the bottom of a spotted blue teacup.
Her known life so out of reach, memories slap
at her hands like angry school teachers:
She had never known falling was this easy.
Her own longings are a marmalade jar,
sticky and unsuitable for Sunday dress,
she will place into a cupboard
before ever touching ground.
Stolen Tarts
I’ve had things set aside,
and yes, I was cross when someone else
took them, but I got over it,
None of this “off with her head”
kind of nonsense.
Then again I was never a Queen.
Can’t say that I recognized
the value of painting
over white roses,
or giving orders,
flipping decks of cards.
I guess I was the cheeky little girl
in the pinafore,
the one always wandering
chasing after white rabbits.
The one in love
with her own ocean of tears,
and every inky bottle,
saying “Drink Me.”
Jill Bergkamp lives in South Florida with her husband
and sons. She has published recently in 2River View,
and Catapult, and has work forthcoming in Relief.