In this photograph, Alice
is sitting on the wall,
glossy hair tied back,
clearing her solemn face.
Looking at it now
she can remember being set there,
by two strong hands, gripping
her waist, over her tartan skirt,
swinging her up, effortless.
She can’t remember whose the hands were.
So many jolly uncles, laughing cousins.
Alice is not laughing. She
is contemplating flight.
If she jumped now, would she fall,
a great fall, crashing down,
crumpling like a broken doll?
Or would she soar
upwards, white socks and patent
leather shoes skimming
the tree tops, white blouse
bright for a moment
against the clouds?
For Riding the Magic Mushroom. Humpty Dumpty is the prompty dompty.
Sarah writes poems 
Good golly, this is good. All those uncles and cousins set the tone for a molestation background without you having to say a word about it. Excellent work.
This is my favorite part:
“If she jumped now, would she fall,
a great fall, crashing down,
crumpling like a broken doll?”
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Thank you for dropping by and commenting. I do appreciate it. This is part of an Alice series I seem to be writing. It turns out I’m writing about somebody who has to create their own version of reality.
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This achingly lovely, Sarah. I also sense the something bad–possible abuse–and poor Alice going into her own world.
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