Ophelia’s Flowers
After the opera Hamlet by Ambroise Thomas
Something’s very wrong
when a girl begins to sing—
loudly, lowly—
hauntingly dispersing posies
to unseen passersby, announcing
the end of love, drowning
her sorrows in a stream.
This mad scene
yields potent news,
a warning: “Listen, doux époux.
Your disdain hurts,
my mind is burning.”
Crazed, she wields a rapier.
Like Edna Pontellier
who—awakened, fervid, rebuffed—
plunges into the Louisiana Gulf,
a garden of jessamine,
yellow chamomile, sweet pinks.
And scorned Dido’s droop-
winged cupids scatter roses on her tomb
(Aeneas having lent the blade)
when she is laid
in earth. Thus we and they—
méprisées—
condemn
with strewments:
rosemary, fennel, tulips,
white columbine, and rue.
