OPHELIA AND THE WOLVES
I wonder about Ophelia,
the wooded river bank she stepped from
to find her new home, water shrouding
her face as the great boughs of great trees
swung overhead as though to try
to pull her back up. What did the wolves
think? Wolves do not understand
suicide, they move together, they feed
together, they fight together to survive
at any cost. What did they make of this
packless body shackled in flowers sinking
slowly beneath the river’s still surface?
I imagine them skulking the water’s edge,
catching the scent of her despair, bitter
tang of madness banishing their appetites.
How peculiar this piece of flesh must have
seemed; was she, too, in search of food
on the green floor of the river? I imagine
the wolves standing sentry, awaiting
her return to the surface, pockets unloaded
with stones, clutching handfuls of fish,
thrashing with life, silver and prismatic
in the morning light.