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.