Walking Ophelia

I, something not quite

A woman, to whom

You talk of moons and

Of waxes and wanings

But who knows what

Planet my womb

Is circling and

I am standing

Still the whole chaos

Inside me

You sing of seasons

And I chant the


Of an old


This is no season

But these stirrings of


Whatever amniotic

Hurricanes formed

The crag of my

Face, set into the

Wind blasted across

The decimated plain

On which I fix

My gaze

The light has grown

Nicotined cataracts

And everything

Is greyed as threadbare

Once-white knickers

In one last

Desperate burst

Of colour

The crowns

Of trees thick

With crows

Lift up appeals to

Time like

A clamouring lover


Even as they shed

Even as they

Abandon themselves

To abandonment

And I too, I am readying just

Like this for some kind

Of winter