The Ophelia Cantos
by Theodora Goss
A disembodied hand
Floats on the surface. So much has been lost
Already: toes, the lobe of her left ear.
But this remains, a damp, immaculate
Sign, like a message saved from the dark current.
She wandered through the courtyard in her tattered
Dress distributing wild violets.
She called us whores—your son ma'am, not your husband's
I think—and knaves—the taxes sir, your cellar
Is stocked with sweet Moselle. We called this madness.
Indicia of her innocence: to be
A maiden floating dead among the flowers.
She will become an elegant and mute
Image: the sodden velvet coat, the sinking
Coronet of poppies, virgin's bower,
And eglantine. The replicable girl.
(A blob of Chinese white becomes a hand.
The artist puts his brush in turpentine,
The model pulls her stockings on.)
And yet,
Surround by the water-lily stems,
Her face appears an enigmatic mask:
A drowned Medusa in her snaking hair.
The lilies gape around her like pink mouths,
Telling us nothing we can understand.
Her eyes stare upwards: dead and not quite dead.
Lilies tangle in her hair: green stems
Like water-snakes.
