Ophelia

Ophelia, you walk in the mist, in the edge of the cliff,
With your memories, the toll of bells, and the hush
Of dead leaves under your silently purple promenade.

Some people think that Emily Dickinson dreamed of you
In the silence of her room, one fall evening, apples falling
On the ground as she took a breath and gasped awakening.

Ophelia, you roam the open, the cloudy day, inversely,
Unlike the horse running mad to the horizon, neighing,
But simply going with the wind. Your black hair says.

They say you wanted to taste the edge of the Milky Way,
And would stretch from your window at night, your tongue
Out and reaching into the coldness, swiping the dead air.

Ophelia, you chose to choose and picked those who picked
At your breasts. Your father always told you your destiny,
Not with cards but with the esoteric smoke from his cigarette.

Your mother chose to stay in place while your father ran,
And you didn’t know whether to stay or disappear. Men
Led you to yourself and left you there alone and silent.

Ophelia, I see you, carved across sad stone, sleeping
Inside white marble, sleeping forever in 1966, with moss
Covering the i, your bones brown and still, in place.



note to self: stop listening to Tori Amos.