White Rabbit
       

When I sit before the empty frame, I face a man. We are the audience
as the Alices come between us. They lie back against each other like pages,
blue touching blue. The dark-haired one approaches me, intent, almost writhing,
but looks beyond, moving like a ribbon & staring off at something unnameable.

In the office, we paint roses harlot red. The White Rabbit crawls
across cabinets & swings the lamp tick tock, tick tock. He exits & shuts me in—
my cue to leap & open drawers: locked, locked, white rose, white rose—

At his desk, Lewis says, "You have split me in two". . . are you getting this?
I peer down at my ink swirls & scratches. Yes, I say, because I am loath
to ruin illusions. Before we dress up, the Mad Hatter asks about
my history of analysis. I play my part as if I'm clean as an apron. Not all hatters
are mad, you know. How is a writing desk like a raven? she asks.
Feathers, I reply, & it is her turn to be silent.

Lewis & Alice sway in the stairwell. She walks the banister & collapses
into his arms again & again like the stumbling of the resolute
or the damned. We watch, caught in the steps, suspended in a threshold—

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Copyright © 2022 Shelley Wong All rights reserved
from As She Appears
YesYes Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission