Ophelia

Ophelia

It was in one of those Northern kingdoms: ice, salted cod, stone. The prince of it, Hamlet, ran into the ghost of his father who told him that he, the ghost, was murdered, poison in the ear, one drop, two drops, by his brother, Hamlet's uncle.

Even more dismal was the aforesaid uncle-brother married Hamlet's mother, the ghost's wife. Are you still with me? Well Hamlet pretended to be insane and told his beloved Ophelia to take herself off to a brothel and somewhere along the way he also killed her father. Who did not come back as a ghost.

Ophelia killed herself. They say she fell into the river. But what do they know. Murder, adultery, incest, madness, suicide, poison, subtle, slippery, so sweet, sliding inside, harebell, hawthorn, marsh marigold, cowslip and hart's tongue woven in her hair, plaited, looped, raddled and fretted, the warp of her breath, her fingers fringed with mimosa, irises on her eyes instead of coins.

She stood over the river, her tongue a foxglove, if only she could bite him, the water could cool the heat between her legs, cockcrow, jasmine, she'll be dead before the cock crows. When he laid his head in her lap, a maid no more, mayflower, love lies bleeding. No, just white and still.

She floated in the river, her robes like petals, honeysuckle, morning glory twined around her ankles, dewberry bittersweet, sing hey nonny, no. No. The water so cool, not like the heat of his mouth through cool linen, wedding shift, she wore her wedding slip she sewed, her fingertips swollen with needlepricks, pearls scattered on the cloth like pollen, her heart a nosegay of sweet William, but he was not sweet, bitter, hassock grass and green brier, green grief wrapped around her throat.