Ophelia To The Court
© 2009 by Meghan O’Rourke
My shoes are unpolished, my words smudged.
I come to you undressed (the lord, he whispers
smut, that man, he whispered that). I bend
my thoughts, I submit, but a bird
keeps flying out from my mind, it slippers
your feet and sings–barren world,
I have been a little minx in it, not at all
domestic, not at all clean, not at all blinking
at my lies. First he thought he had a wife, then
(of course) he thought he had a whore. All
I wanted (if I may speak again) was: more.
If only one of you had said, I hold your
craven breaking soul, I see the pieces,
I feel them in my hands, idle silver, idle gold.
You see I cannot speak without telling what I am;
I disobey the death you gave me, love.
If you must be, then be not with me.