Sister Ophelia


Hands upward, and asleep in an illusive
sleeve, floating, as if certain, draped downstream
in liquid blueberry, caught in spiral seams. 
What is she doing, as a torso of wood
or an army of wild flowers that weigh
less than her tresses, and the pallid bulbs

of her lids? The reeds wean their prospering bulbs
over the absent place, eyes, illusive
of life. Those several rainy days away
could feast on shadow, and dine on her stream,
unconscious air, while glowering bones would
surely hold, as sleep fades between. Half scene/

half dream, most perfect complacency seen.
Memory brightens the indifferent bulbs,
and Monday’s echoes, knee-deep, fetched forestward;
she cries, breaching myth and an allusive
name. Blush is absent from her skin, the stream
of her gown, together, how these veils outweigh

when swamped by flowers and only mid-way
remembered. Do her lashes wisp, when seen
walking, in a hush, beside the flower’s dream,
eyes once rich as evergreen, orchid bulbs,
and lilies looking for some elusive 
meaning, drenched in forests, innocence? And would

we inquire leaves, forests, and brushwood
what is lying under the swaddled way
of bent oak? Her lips whither, allusive
bloom of red breath. Hands remain quiet, still-seen
empty, turned toward whimpering blue bulbs,
gathering every wane. In a side stream,

a meld quivers close to you, a lyric steam
of cold-pressed algae and dreaming driftwood.
From your throat, a voice unties, mythic bulbs
and whirlpool fingers, that beat in a wave
from some radio, resonating this scene
to one hundreds of years since, allusive

and having just begun your unseen
elements. Soon, a love song will outweigh
you, and split between your surrounding streams.

Copyright © 2003 Jessica Schneider