every Alice

 

 

I whispered kind to the child inside but her reflection
in the glass of a chip shop on the Cally Road
did the talking; drowned me out.

Hot potato stopped up her gullet
like a stone from the side of the road
her middle flopping over her pants

but
wanting to be the lady her mother wished her
she wouldn’t spit.

When at last those chips went down
they sat in her belly
indurating

laid siege to her; twisting up her insides and although
the violence of their passage through her
had its beauty

it left
the new pink drawers
scarred a livid red.

I have done my share of shouting since
called, cajoled
but that mad-hat girl puts her hands over her ears

runs them over an empty baby-belly
thinks how nice the knife would slice
the stitches pull up tight.

I throw compliments like stones but I cannot
crack the glass.
She’s Tinker bell; a firefly caught in a jar.

Her snow-globe smile (Shake it up Baby!)
hides her awful truth
the remnants of a feline grin left in her fading light.

Like every Alice hers is a distorted view
and she looks inward
inspects herself through a fairground glass

misreads the label (Eat Me) but when I look closely
‘Love me’ runs the length of her
-like peppermint rock.