poem for a young lady

the worst part is when I dive down the rabbit hole falling headlong like alice
turned everywhichway in psychedelic fashion,

your stupid face spiraling past my mind’s eye.
blinking baby doe lashes click over glassy reflections
full of shit and vorpal betrayal;

where are your pupils then?

vacuously one dimensional,
you brush annoyingly up
and against my skin and I crawl
in this sack of a body that’s shared your company when

I didn’t even know you were sitting at the table
filling your teacup with my sugar cubes.

I should have heard the clink of flowered china
when you broke my best bowl.

polyspandex smile that sweats outgrabingly through pig’s-blood cheep lipstick
on your crooked face; I land headfirst
exposed for all to see and you are hysterical and mad mad mad
pointing a ragged child’s finger all too close
and I would slap your painted cheek if I wasn’t so embarrassed
because

I wore my cotton undies with the stain.

All this dashing and these doorways and the singing falsities of deluded age
are yours,

my dear.

I’m growing roses and every now and again
the snarls of this cultivated art send my skin into red rupture.

I’m painting blood red roses and tending blood red apple groves
and that damn rabbit
just won’t stop tempting the whores in the little town down the hill.

off with his head!

***

righting myself properly
and smoothing out my blue cotton dress with the buttons and white collar
I peer down the diminishing hallway of locked doors and winking mirrors.

through the looking glass I see my aged and searching face flushed

and wave my hand
across the gilt frame.

 

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Assist Ed: Renee Picard