Cassiopeia
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Alice Through The Wormhole Poetry Contest
Sponsor Tom Woody 7/31/25
Eighth Place
Just like her favorite character Alice, she wears a light blue dress and a pinafore, she pairs it up with white tights and black Mary Jane shoes. A black ribbon pulls hair tight, she adds something else, around her neck a skeleton key adorns. It was her grandfather’s, an amiable, pleasant friendly and best of all, fanciful storyteller. On her way she goes. She sings the poet’s song from her favorite tale grandad taught her from his fairytale collection of “a keyhole that holds heaven on the other side of its door.” A calling melody without lyrics! Melodic phrases responding to another. How is it that a poet and a blank page make melodies? She hums along.
A young girl named Cassy sits curiously by a riverbank, twirling her long tresses as she peeks into reflecting waters, she fiddles with the key. It falls into the river, and she jumps in after it. An endless swim, she lifts her head. At first blurry swishes of gardens and trees are all she sees. Images clear, and in the midst of a meadow, a peculiar door painted turquoise, her favorite color, a tangerine tree makes buzzing sounds, a prickly cactus sways upon a small chair in a holey vase, orangey dahlias appear to be smiling. Cassy in awe, hears the chirping of birds, then swims further searching on the river bottom. Waterdrops drip off her face as she takes a breath, once again the eye-catching door stands. She reaches out for a key peeking out of the nonsensical vase. Through the door, she clenches the key in one hand, wrens are singing their bird song, in harmony to the tune of the poet’s song—beckoning. Elongated figures clear, all else disappear, a celestial body is in the shadows, around her stars of sterling silver. The other side of the world is shimmering! She must be in heaven, thoughts of grandfather comfort.
Baptism took place
Alice through a w o r makes~
e m
l o h
a grandfather’s grace
No route in sight! Her voice amplifies, her breath is visible through a filigree of frost. Gold and liquid silver paths curl with any motion. And without a rose compass or a sense of direction, nulled is North, the turquoise door dissipates. Cassy calls out into the swirling cat’s cradle wishing herself onto the path that leads back to the riverbank. A voice mimics her, echoing through dark matter, this way Cassiopeia. Befuddled over a voice not hers, she reaches out and lava-lamp like streams behold, bolus bulbs capsuled in rich colors with incandescent light streaking through, a happy place she thought. It was her grandfather’s voice, only he called her Cassiopeia. Inspired by the constellation of stars with the same name, he’d kid around— a game, she is a star of the constellation, muddled through white whiskers, you’ll see its distinctive 'W' shape, formed by five bright stars. Cassiopeia is in the northern sky. When Cassiopeia follows a luminated path, he went on, the path only warms and as she rises through the cluster it cools in downward spiral, a shortcut through spacetime, easily recognizable for its distinctive 'W' shape and Cassiopeia will hover over what she loved most, the Rhine River that flows and glows from the brilliant moonlamp. Cassy follows the luminated path, it is warm and then cools through mineral and carbon. By the riverbank not far, she dwells where all is well, grandfather’s bright star.
* * *
* under moonlamps glow
* * * *
Rhine River’s flow, starry lights ~
* Cassiopeia *
* *
Copyright © I Am Anaya | Year Posted 2025
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