An excerpt from

White Stone: The Alice Poems
by Stephanie Bolster

Still Life

I've got it too, that knack
for sitting still while inner
ticking hammers every

nerve and the universe
runs on like a white rabbit,
Alice's frantic tardy heart

invisible inside a cage
of lace. Now past the need
for poses, we let video take us

where and as we are.
If I could see her move,
know the way her sleeve

folded as she shifted her wrist
to write her name,
would it be like opening

a door into a garden?
I let her history fall shut
and move into my moving body.

Victoria's dead, this isn't
England, and Alice was never
just that taxidermied girl

through Dodgson's lens,
that woman's face looming
in my dark room.

When the camera turned
away, she ran. Since I began
to seek her, I've found

love, moved to a land
white as a page. I rarely stop
to think of her these days.