A Coat of Cracked Teacups

I’ve always adored the original Jabberwocky—its strange, musical logic, the way it makes you feel something deep and vivid even though half the words don’t technically exist.

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I stomp through the bramble-thick logic of yesterday’s tea,

wearing my rage like a coat made of cracked teacups and unsaid apologies,

each sleeve a snicker-snack of could-haves and nearlys that bit me when I blinked,

and the frabjous moon grinned like it knew what I lost but wouldn’t tell me.

There was a bandersnatch once, soft as burnt toast and cruel as silence,

who kissed like a broken rhyme and left crumbs on my tongue

that tasted like tulgey mornings without her,

when the fog tried to remember how her name felt in the throat.

I should have shouted, or danced, or torn apart the garden of clocks,

but I only brewed another pot of grief and stared into the cup

as if love might rise again with the steam.

The Jabberwock came later, wearing her smile,

and I didn’t fight it.

I asked it to stay.

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