Ophelia Lost Poem by Chris Zachariou

Her white memory—
the young forest
the scent of apple blossom
the taste of sunrise.

In a frenzy of swirling passion
we buried our fledgling sainthood
deep in the walls of the pious chapel
and together we fled to the safety
of the lilac sea.

Ophelia is so beautiful
swimming in the murmurs of the morning
and in the red and purple sighs of sunset.

She has the blood moon in her hair
and her dress and all her ribbons
are nailed to the hardwood of the mast.

Standing at the helm
with the taste of brine on her lips
and her pristine white collar
abandoned in the freedom of the sails
she steers her yellow boat
to the porcelain altar of her newborn day.

Ophelia is now lost to me
darkening in the blurred horizon
an off-key song across her shoulders
and a grieving swallow at her side.