alice's first session with her therapist
'tisn't brillig, you see, and toves are thock and gruntig
creatures. even the jabberwocky would rather tickle
the mad hatter's fancy than cross their lofty paths.
he confessed to cowardice once, trumpeting it from
every rabbit hole in low inaudible frequencies. all
my mirrors reflected the message for seven hours.
does this sound like fun: along the wall, constant
fear of that pompous oversized head-with-legs;
crockery rattling through the night to get away
from a rude pair of hosts, a sober dormouse hard
on their heels; advice not to exhale too loud within
sight of the red queen's faux marshmallow castle?
do you call these company - a blubbering pinniped,
self-confessed oyster fetishist; a hubble-bubbling
insect who'll fume when contradicted; two big-
mouthed schoolboys telling me, nohow, i am not
real, not even when i cry? contrariwise, i say,
a barren landscape might prove more fruitful.
about every other day someone suspects drug
abuse, searches my pinny for illegal substances.
a hysterical bunny sniffs each pocket, bag and shoe,
the lining of my hat. all this because i proudly claim
that my best friend is a semi-existent demi-ginger
cat who always leaves me with a wink and a smile.
the therapist hears about alice's life
monday and tuesday
i play myself backwards every other day, watch
shadows oozing from fat blades. they all catch up
with me, even my own. south is no direction but
a state of mind, something simple for the masses.
quite the fashion here. monday is laundry day, i
skinny-dip before the daisies wake, before tiger-lily
can find fault with me again. she drinks, you know.
madness runs through this land like innuendoes
through shakespeare plays. tuesdays are reserved
for mental hygiene. i keep my doors locked, hang
all windows with thick crepe. not even the cheshire
cat's grin will be tolerated if tinged raunchy. i never
have mushrooms on odd days. on spring weekends,
i pretend not to hear the panting of the march hare.
wednesday and thursday
on wednesdays i substitute myself for everything
containing traces of blue: there are more clouds
in alice than sun. alice needs to be watered twice
a week. the alice-throated hummingbird is rare in
this neighbourhood, even in the summer. they ran
out of size 6 alices before 2 o'clock. alice was at half-
mast for most of the day, limp in the absence of wind.
gargling is forbidden on days containing more
than one immelodious letter. i make up for it by
singing scales under water until all the big fish
get jealous. on thursdays, they pay me back by
jumping off plates, daring me to follow, head over
heels, knowing i can't, as long as the duchess is
watching. she snickers, sneers, sneezes contempt.
the weekend
fridays are the worst. the red queen sits smack
in the middle of every meadow, telling flowers
how to grow, proclaiming herself the new sun.
she reeks of rules. i understand her king: sleep
is a blessing, no etiquette, none of her directives.
water isn't always wet, not if she decides it's drier
than an ace of spades, brittle as royal parchment.
on saturdays i measure rabbit holes, avoid the mad
hatter who will try to persuade me it's the perfect
time to party. every sunday the white knight knocks
on doors to see if he's there. if successful, he stops
by on his way back, ever polite, ever clumsy, ever
this contorted image of myself. he leaves a clump of
sanity behind, precious gift, insists i smoke it slowly.
The Therapist Plays Hangman With the Red Queen
A line of underscores bleeds from her hand.
I make the rules, although there may be none,
and once they're made, they're easily undone.
Unwritten words cast shadows on dry land.
I try an A for Alice, and she laughs.
No eights in this, she chirps. I choose a T,
the gallows grows. An F? Oh fie, spits she,
we don't want letters smelling of giraffes!
Nor goldfish, for that matter. I pick S
and K; one is too snaky, one too king.
Q's will play quoits and X's cause her grief.
One leg is dangling, two, I'm dead. She says,
It's Cween Linda Lorinda, stupid thing!
I add a crown to the drawn head, and leave.
the therapist has a dream
a shutter slurs open. why have you come? the voice hangs upside down
from a spade-leafed branch. i am excess baggage, a dream fallen out of
alice's pocket, i say. you need to grow up, bumbles a half-grin in the sky
and stripes clouds into existence. i sniff into rabbit hole 17, attracted by
the prime number - not the smell, not the smell. someone tugs at the hem
of my skirt and i respond even though this isn't my birthday. niwt ruoy ma i,
she exhales, pinafore-clad, vaguely peachy like someone i almost knew. a
red ribbon floats from hair, snakes towards turrets dawning on the horizon.
every step echoes across the slate of sky like agitated heartbeat, a short-
winded hare's afternoon delight. both queens await me, outgrowing each
other by the second, competing clockworks of craziness. the red queen's
belly swells with rules until she belches them out, staccatoed, beginning
with a mangled A for avoid, anticipate, absolve. the other one shrieks
tongs across metal, preparing to hammer my heart into a dumpling.
whiskers brush against my premature grief, gloved paws whip me off.
an arc through time -- a tea party later i land, april-bound, on a beach
tear-stained with oysters. a walrus snorts at the far end of spring, a
caterpillar requests nursery rhymes. out comes mary was a little vamp,
her fleas were lithe and low. the white knight stares, suddenly mistaking
me for someone i have forgotten to be: a song, a tale, a girl like alice.
The Therapist Joins the Mad Tea Party
There is room for me at the table, unused crockery; a clean
spoon reflects the eyes of the hatter, twinkling like a bat's,
black and white teapots etched on both irises, ad infinitum.
The lack of wine is alarming, not a single ampoule around; sure
sign of a joyless existence, never a dance except the wind in the
dormouse's wiry whiskers. I am offered none, refuse to decline.
So, stubborn and sullen, I say, my fingers politely on the desk,
pointing only at the merest shadow of the man. Is it the queen's
fault, do you think, your passive-aggressive behaviour? He chokes.
I shouldn't make personal remarks; but what else, between bites
of bread and butter? There's hardly any weather to comment on,
time is sulking elsewhere, his long hands growing scaly and white.
A broken watch does not listen to tea, no matter how English
it may be, no matter how smitten with milk. You must understand,
I warn, about the potential loss of that �- a nod towards his head.
Triumph comes with my answer to his riddle: a raven and a
writing desk both bring changes for the worse, stars will crash
into mountains, even the dormouse will wake and remember.
It dreams now, I can see by the shape of its tail, of a house full
of friends, surprises bigger than plates, liquids unspilling themselves,
things that start with an M: meringue, marching bands, mealtimes.
The hare rattles from chair to chair, panting a strategy for teasing
their companion, expecting me to ponder the respective merits of
muchness and moredom. Little by little, I put together a lethal list.