My golden hair rubs spiders

from the ceiling.

My pretty blue dress

mops dust up from the floor.

My elbow scrapes

the muck from out of the corner.

What is that stuff?

White rabbit dander? Frayed playing cards?

Croquet mallet filings?

Felt from the Mad Hatter’s topper?

The window’s open, so at least,

my hand can free itself.

But to what end?

For Cheshire Cat to rake his claws?

Dodo to nibble?

Humpty Dumpty to sit upon,

stumble off, and sue me later?

And I’m still growing.

Walls could squeeze my face

into my knees and out the other side.

Brain and heart might mesh together,

blood vessels pop, veins coil and knot.

Oh how I wish that I were home.

But wait I am home

and here comes mother

to check the door’s steel bolt.

“Wonderland,” I hear her mutter

as she waddles back to the kitchen.

“I’ll give you wonderland.”