The cover was the color of old ivory or sepia:
scrimshaw impermanent, flaking at the edges -
an introduction to this world of mirrors,
less allegory than reflection.
Down that hole, amid the wood where we forget our names,
I found companionship. Your dappled hide meant
no more than a soft murmur under my hand.
It was a pleasant day in summer. We were,
for once, unaccompanied and aimless.
When the trees faded into lawn and memory returned,
I knew I was dangerous, something forward
in a world of backward glass.
You fled into the underbrush.
It takes two to make a predator: the glance
returned, the word spoken, indelible
as jam and inkstains.
In fact, my childish hands were bloodless,
tangled in a cornflower pinafore. It made no difference.
Once a name is given, the mirror lends it substance,
Flowers refuse to speak on the matter.
Lea C. Deschenes
(firstname.lastname@example.org) has been a fairy tale,
folklore and myth junkie since her first collection of
Grimm's Fairy Tales at age six, which may explain her
somewhat dark sense of humor, her huge library, and the
incident with the wishing well. She knows
"Jabberwocky" by heart.