what the therapist     

doesn't say to alice                                   

that alice is too blue, like a
sky that only occurs once a year,
after spring cleaning. that rule number one
is not, is never to assume everybody else is mad,
and sanity comes in all shapes, sizes, textures, even furry.

that psychosis cannot be
blamed on card-shaped royalty
nor insects with tobacco addictions, however
unlikeable their spindly fingers, their hyperactive
feelers. velvet cloche hats shouldn't do such damage either.

that she'd like to shrink,
crawl into the warm cave of alice's
pocket, have a field day in that land where
everyone's the product of someone's imagination,
defined by diet, current conditions, mood and primal fears.

that alice's curls are too
softly orange, cheeks too spring,
lips too rarely puckered, hips too too. there is
no cure, no hope for one so averse to fire, fighting,
dreamless sleep. alice isn't a book that will ever unwrite itself.

previously published in Hiss Quarterly, August 2006

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A Ladies' Guide to Writing the Love Poem                           

Address your love interest by a name that's seven times more

beautiful than his; never Nigel, Roger, Walter. If he uses words

carefully while making love, honour your man by calling him

Digby. Mention his hands; how they find new routes to travel

every time your body unfolds like a map. When describing a

first kiss, avoid words that sound like they'd cut into tongues,

grate against lips. Think outside the box. Think suction, think

hot pressure, teeth as barriers. Start undressing your lovers

in line eleven. Litter the floor with garments: a skirt (pink, cream),

jeans (stubborn buttons, rebellious zips); keep quiet about socks -

kamikaze acts to get rid of them do not belong in love poems.

Line breaks deserve extra care: nothing should be left hanging,

moisture should not be separated from places where it occurs

naturally. End couplets on prepositions for thumbs – inside, on

oranges, cherries, parts without equivalents in the fruit bowl.

Provide details, but never in garish colours, technical terms or

quaint words. Call a spade a spade, though metaphors are not

ruled out – morning dew on thighs, lamp-posts that ignite.

Slip in a question that only he can answer. Avoid allusions to

the men who held your heart before him. Avoid the word heart.

Use discretion. A man may writhe beneath the sheets, he may

vocalise desire, call you names that make your blood sing; if he

weeps with pleasure, it is between him and you. A poem is no

X-ray. A poem is no inventory of what body does to body, what

your limbs spell out. Don't forget a little sweetness. At night,

zero in on whispers in the dark; keep a notepad by your bed.

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titanium (ti)                                                                               

northwest of titania, ten minutes past eight

behind a shard that is her moon, the fairy queen dances, wings

raised, heart pulsing in time with the faint aquamarine smudge

that is a planet, a god who has lost too many battles. rooted in

white silence, satellites float past, twirling in slow motion. who

spins the threads, who holds them? an arrow flies, slender and

straight, cutting across time, piercing the body of a star. light

seconds later, it wraps around the finger of a man who never

dreamed he'd wear a wedding band. he buckles under its silvery

glint, the sudden grasp of what it ties him to: an awesome face.

weightlessness. love. the huntress brushes a tear from her cheek.

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