At the edge of the gumdrop forest waits a door to swallow her whole
deep, deeper down the rabbit hole she hopes to lose her mind or find her soul
or a better way back than before.
Perhaps chance upon a homeless camp
tarp and dust pan,
flash backs to that woman & those men you caught with your 22—
old news, that was way back when— squirrels & John Muir wouldn’t even give it a passing glance
by the old growth hemlock & spruce, snow on ground & twisting roots holding down your queen
of hearts, ocean breath & song of thrush, old man’s beard on Dr. Seuss trees & mushroom musk.
If John Muir were a her on this frapcious earth day she’d prefer the form of a cheshire cat
rather than a girl without a dog, 5’5 122 pounds, a perfect rabbit for the hunting hieing through wonderland
& a homeless camp, lichen’s web catching on her hat, rain water pooling under boots,
nibbling at the ice, and at the trail head upon her return, I wonder if John Muir
the man would observe a ladies torn thong strung along a branch as if to offer
a warning… I wonder.