the destruction of terabithia

the mad hatter blinked at me midsentence, marking the place where the 
commas spliced these strings of thoughts together, punctation in facial 
gestures, paranthesis illustrated by the creased dimples on either side of 
his mouth.

"you're bleeding, alice," he noticed, as if suddenly a jar of the 
primevial ooze was set beside the treacle and the jam and the custard, 
another side item to be rung up on the register and served with crumpets 
and tea.

"all women bleed," though i fumble with my hands, though i'm not so 
elegant as him, though my handwriting's messy. "it's god's curse to us."

"it's god's blessing," the mad hatter sniffed, buttoning his left 
cordouroy sleeve and shoving his butterknife into the safety net of an 
open palm. "the gift of a spindle, don't you know what kind of life you 
can weave with that thread?" he spreads a layer of jam over the crust, and 
places it within his vacuous mouth, rows of white teeth all glaring at me 
beneath the two beady eyes, brows narrowed into parrallel lines with the 
angles of his bowtie, but it's all for effect. i sit in silence for a 
while, glancing at the pile of used napkins all to my left, spotted 
crimson and a muddy brown, my attempts to get my hands clean. life gets 
under the fingernails, especially if you have been clawing into it. of 
course you don't notice until you gouge out an eye, that's what the mad 
hatter said.

"what do you want?" he asked.

"a bridge," i said.

"to terabithia?"

i shook my head. he didn't understand. how could he? in a place such as 
this in a time such as now where space and digital watches are mingled in 
symmetry dreams, he was still watching the castles and spires and 
glittering candlesticks of yesterday's camelot, while i toed through 
charred remains and my fingertips traced ash.

"terabithia has been utterly destroyed."

if teacups were to have snorted themselves through the serendipitous 
nostrils of the mad hatter, i shan't have noticed too much, not then.

"who lit the match?"

"i did."

"with what fire?"

"words." another napkin and the stain still follows, all of this blood and 
no wounds visible, just charcoal and soot, just the smouldering aftermath, 
ashes--are you looking for the pheonix? a blue feather has flown. words 
that were empty, words that digressed, words that said nothing; words, the 
crutch for ideas, he said. but still, he swallowed them. and i wash the 
dew away with tears but nothing will bring the sea back to me, no matter 
how many waves i harness and no matter how many sailors i sew to the 
anchor to pull, heave ho, and overboard--it falls, it drops out of the 
sky, feathers in a puddle of blood--i didn't mean to...

"can you see it from here?"

"yes."

"what is it?"

"he's touching me."

"yes?"

"should i touch him back?"

"do you want to?"

"yes..."

"is it there, a flicker?"

"yes, but..."

"what?"

"a dying ember, the wind took it..."

"you shouldn't have gone in there--all of the candles in the world 
couldn't help you now, you've summoned gales, and they are not returning."

"i can't see the heights from here..."

"it's too far over the moor to see, alice. you've sent him off...you've 
been in this tower a long time, lass. are you cold?"

"a little, but it will pass."

"why did you betray your own heart, alice?"

and my eyes shift to constillations and that cosmic dance, where we began 
our story and ended it, both with blinking irises shuttering out the light 
from distance suns, dancing at one end and tears at the other, a 
kaliedoscope in retrospect...my hands are stolen, and nothing can be 
touched, not even him, these gloves get in the way, the flood washed the 
bridge out, this stranger's scent in my sheets, shoplifted memories and 
dime-store thoughts--leftovers of another life, photographs with my face 
in them, a soul stolen...along with the baggaged heart against his breast 
which once was mine...ribbons braid the go-between but someone cut the 
wire, someone burnt the bridge, and these flannel clothes i have thrown 
over myself reek of turpentine...the birds escaped, the trapeze artist 
fell, like angels--the wind can only hold for so long, and all i know, all 
that composes the disaray of once was terabithia, until shade is 
gone--feathers.