back ramrod straight; arms poised in mid-air:
and the notes would drop like snowflakes,
crystalline and clean and ephemeral.
there are ink stains on her
wrists, cheekbones and chin -
they spread vein-like over her translucent skin.
people try to hide their secrets
but sometimes, secrets are exactly what they are:
the sun god apollo fell in love with daphne
who was a nymph, with lead in her heart
she couldn’t love him (not with a heart of lead)
and begged to be free of him.
her skin transformed into bark, her outstretched arms the branches reaching into the sky
and her hair was the leaves whispering in the wind –
but even then Apollo loved her and kissed her root-turned-feet
and granted her immortality.
he knows that writing her love letters everyday
would not make her come back.
she loved him once, twice even,
but she never loved him the way he loved her:
as if she was a gaudy, orange-colored life buoy floating
in a sea in which he is perpetually drowning.
alice alice where are you
because she is always looking for alice.
she checks the rabbit-hole underneath the vervain bush
and the looking glass behind the mantel place
(the mirror smashed into smithereens as her finger made contact
with the glass and the rabbit-hole is covered up in dirt).
she didn’t think that
she would see alice ever again.