From Alice in Wonderland

Alice laughed: “There’s no use trying,” she said; “one can’t believe impossible things.” “I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was younger, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. Alice in Wonderland, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson

1 Lucifer wears my bathrobe

You walk to the open window, the dish towel hanging from one hand, and brace yourself against the sill. In the sweet morning air you sniff.

Because it’s not the toaster and there are no wisps of smoke near any of the button panels; the stove shows the time, the microwave too, the coffee maker is off. Finding nothing in the air above the street, you hover your hand over the elements and they are cool.

Moments later you shut off the faucet over the sink and.

It’s gone. You circle the kitchen, the living room, glancing at each of the outlets and the sprouting of cords in the corner. Gone again.

But there, near the bathroom door you feel, deep in your nose, almost up to your eyes, the sooty whiff.

Your thick white bathrobe has fallen off the hook and as you enter, it catches against the door. It’s still heavy from your morning shower and as you lift the collar, brittle tufts prickle the pad of your thumb; a thick charcoal stroke follows the curve of the neck.

You hang it over the metal horn because the shower curtain lies carelessly across the edge of the tub and is dripping from its sag into the dirty cluster where the hexagonal tiles are missing. You sweep the curtain back and inside your nose it’s warm, and at the back of your throat it’s dry, and on the ceiling paint there are wet drops. A corner of the rubber mat is flipped back and the suckers have captured a slither of hairs ... red.

You scan the floor at your feet. The bath mat is stomped with a gather of crescent moons. You raise your chin and peer from under your brows and into the mirror. Finally, one of your eyes is blue.