Ophelia Knows What it Feels Like, Do You?
A father will die.
Later, the heart blooms–
bird of paradise orange crowned and pointing.
In the herb garden she escapes
the Panopticon the man’s eyes.
Apparent engagement with pruning shears in one hand,
rosemary for remembrance in the other.
She snips and tends pansy faces,
hears his voice
in drops of rain on leaves.
Ophelia stands in headwaters her hips buoy left and right
as though bumped by exiting train passengers.
She is slick and seal-like in rubber gaiters,
trout swim beneath,
a pod of silver moves in her reflected face.
Prisms slick on rainbow skin swimming in thoughts disappear
before the brain registers the image, an imprint here:
seeing and not seeing.
Fish beyond reach.
Rapids bubble gray tracers shadows of bears
at her back; she feels them watching.
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