Jump down the rabbit hole and into the pool of tears.
Watch out, that’s moldy Victorian think-speak,
Monday morning mania,
Friday afternoon despair;
Piecemeal work, quilting themes of desperate hours.
It’s all so sad, those meanly parceled out bits of string,
Women’s lives of so long ago
Bit by bit etched out in two-colored sand.
Alice thinks it is different today, though it is still there,
The new taboo, just with a different name.
Poor Alice catches a secret glance during museum hour, gazing at the listless longing of Rossetti’s beauties,
Pays a nocturnal visit to her romance –
Is a novel long after her indifferent lover turns out the light –
Prying the dusty pages from between his fingertips,
Switching on a silent flashlight.

- Isabelle Ghaneh