His Ophelia

Stumbling again —
eyes half open,
roots bound
in an overhand knot —
does she feel
all the indictment
of his sharpened nails?

She cannot light
a match —
or give letters
to fire.
And her words
hold no currency
with them.

Walking on water,
by the river garden —
her hands are suspended —
to actions

And the erosion
of her golden bones
catches us all
off guard.
We nurtured
her visions,
savored her illusions.

We kiss the dirt,
and her fingers
seek the comfort
of keys,
as she follows
the singing
of lost objects.

And she might suffer
them to pass.
But who would be
so heartless —
as to knock on
or knock down
her delicate door?


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: