mistaking the sea for green fields
Ashley Capps
Ophelia, when she died,
lay in the water like the river's bride, all pale
and stark and beautiful against the somber rocks,
her hair an endless golden ceremony.
She made the water sing for her; it flowed
over her folded arms.
Not so my father's sister Karen,
swollen in a day-old tub of water
when they found her,
needle tucked into the ( Read more... )
Ophelia, when she died,
lay in the water like the river's bride, all pale
and stark and beautiful against the somber rocks,
her hair an endless golden ceremony.
She made the water sing for her; it flowed
over her folded arms.
Not so my father's sister Karen,
swollen in a day-old tub of water
when they found her,
needle tucked into the ( Read more... )
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