Alice

All this was between Alice’s legs;

the hole where roots unfurled,

the roots of England, her beauty

still pagan, and the cusp of time

covered in stiff brown hair,

where is built the tiniest garden.

 

If he leaned down to whisper in her ear

the last of gravity

tumbled down the forest path where beautiful

waifs lay gifts; no Dickens ever frosted their lips

nor consumption snatch them too soon.

He would find her among the Thames’ ripples;

 

her questions would vaporize like rabbit-shadow.

Yes, a hedgerow burning downward and tender,

the hurriedness of discovery,

the zero at the heart of the red queen’s rose;

and such bright falling

as he pushed away the leafy hem….

 

There is curiosity in the air

filtering down like holy water

into the rood of her mouth

and the choirblack soot of London chimneys.

What tunnel of invisible crusades, topiary, and green hills spins forth

inside her, stretching her

 

like a drum. What is it she holds back?

Ribbons of old English voices

tied round her flushed throat

singing as he watches, “Cherry Ripe”.

What did her parents expect him to do?

She is his oar and compass through madness;

 

her blue dress beginning to fold and plait itself

before she is caught in someone’s good intentions

before she grows overwise—

The wedding of x, the children of y—

She is still in the modest dress of wonder.

Oh her small hand just beginning to touch him—                                                printable