Three Poems

Hatter Explains Why It’s Always Teatime

She considered me a dandy. That’s why she loved me. That’s why she hated me.

Demanding I design all of her hats. Then resenting me when they outshone her.

You used to be much more … muchier, she said the day that I last saw her.

Insisting I sing, then accusing my ditty of murdering the time at her party.

Had I been songless, it would have been the same fate: Off with his …

But she couldn’t do it. Knowing one day she might come to crave a bonnet

embellished with beaver fur and vulture feathers, a risky endeavor

only I would be insane enough to dare dream up.

So she detained me here, where the clock always reads six. I pass the time

with a queer little bunch always game for a rowdy soirée. The Dormouse

long suspected her Grace had an urge for me, always a little hungry

for something to peck during her fittings, her sharp shoulder nudging me

in the most unspeakable of places. Giggling when I shuddered.

Don’t be such a daisy! she would growl. You’re no better than the king.

Rumor had it he delved into the diabolical on occasion with some of his knights.

But Alice, she once resembled you—daring, undaunted—that’s why you

are most welcome at my table. Surely, it will take someone defiant as you

to resuscitate time.

Hatter’s Definitions of Madness

1) 9 to 5 employment in an industry I have grown to detest.

2) Accommodating the social expectation to suffer simpletons.

3) Dousing the devilish tendencies of my two-pronged tongue.

4) Allowing a story to proceed with its predictable end in sight.

5) Surpressing my style to avoid shaming the unforgivably unstylish.

6) Having a circle of companions who too closely resemble myself.

7) Refraining from relishing my own utterly ridiculous remarks.

8) Hosting a party that entices no insolent or unusual crashers.

9a) Surrendering to the belief that a party requires an occasion.

9b) Not inventing one after surrendering to such an absurd belief.

Loose Interpretations of the Mad Hatter’s Dream Journal

It’s preferable to be perfunctory. Diving deep isn’t advisable

until a suitable depth has been determined. But don’t expect

madness to be without its charms. Like a seemingly random

inclusion of his grandmother’s recipe for scones may, perhaps,

suggest nostalgia for the humdrum childhood that mysteriously

gave way to his debonair mania. Perhaps, he privately longed

to be a baker, a quaint shoppe owner who stocked the most

fashionable teas imported from India. The cramped back room

behind a floral print curtain where tea leaves could be read

for a nominal fee. Just because I’m mad doesn’t mean I’m not

right, his mantra for clients disregarding his kind warnings.

Don’t be disturbed by the repetitive references to suffocatingly

small rooms and animal skins logged in his entries. Mere tools

of the trade. Likely his father’s and grandfather’s trade too—

madness mistakenly blamed on lineage instead of the mercury

used to treat fur for trim on hats. Such a high cost for finery.

Each entry will be dense with imagery, laced with characters.

Like a tarot card. Expect familiar faces: the Queen, for example,

may be taken literally but not that strange little girl who haunts

his passages in a most delightful way. One entry has her binging

on his grandmother’s scones. You might detect his admiration

for this rebellious girl who fulfills her desires. Or you might

look at it as a reversal: envy. The devil that stole what was his.

Still the dreams revisit that party on a loop: each one featuring

a riddle meant to entertain or annoy her. Approach his journal

with this in mind. Pour yourself some tea. Close Freud’s book

on dream analysis. It has no relevance here, where relevance

is irrelevant. It’s a beautiful black box. Open it. It may unleash

nothing horrible. Just a vapidity. Peculiar, yes, but pleasant

on the surface nonetheless. A bit of fur trim on a common rim.