Ophelia I

A stallion stamps under a tree
in the backyard meadow.

At the casement she dreams
he gallops to fill
the nothing she holds in her arms
with blood flowers and weeds
for her hair.

The walls of the palace whisper
her name, tell the tale
of a stallion wakening
dangerous under the yew
fennel and columbine
tangling his mane.

She wants him to ride her
past false dreams and stones
in the wall, past curtains
waving goodbye,

past the field, away to his bed
of wild grass near a stream
that’s not there.