Monday, August 23, 2004

AUGUST 23, 2004 (MONDAY)

I hate revising this poem.

Remembrance

There's rosemary, for remembrance. Pray, love, remember.

- Ophelia, in Shakespeare's Hamlet
(Act 4, Scene 5, Line 175)


She sank without anyone noticing
her lily-white hands floating above the water
like twin fishes.

She was mad, driven insane by love.
The river waters offered solace for the shattering
of her already fragile heart.

I can almost imagine the silence
that followed her death, like the stillness of rooms,
sheets swirling like streams

around the shores of your absence.
The door swings on silent hinges.
Outside, I can hear an old woman singing.

I'll tell you your secrets tonight, but
I feel as though I'm merely soaking my toes
into the flow of the river whose name I've already forgotten;

(I think it starts with an L.)
Like her, I would also like to vanish
beneath the cold surface of the waters -

death is more welcome than heartbreak.

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