Ophelia

Oh Hamlet, my lord,

a pleasure it is to

drown thee.

I mourned for thy

madness – no more.

My father pierced,

myself scorned,

a daughter’s grief is

worth threescore of

thy spendthrift mutterings.

‘Not to be… n-n-not to be’,

O! Take brook down thy

stammering gullet.

Too much of water hast thou,

so I shall spare my tears.

Rosemary and pansies,

fennel, columbines, and rue:

all are too fresh for thee.

Perhaps they shall

paint you one day,

floating and bloated,

choking on black bile

and vomited words.

I shall watch the painter

frame thy watery grave,

and laugh.

[Originally published, with an illustration, in From the Lighthouse, Issue 4]