Ophelia by Kim Malinowski

In clay and loam—I wait

find home in daisies and thistle,

stars, in misty bower.

 

I sighed as you died,

nothing sacred is mine—only time.

 

Grief has been said before and better—

it deserves no rhyme.

 

Grief is to be chanted in sighs and moans—

garbled whispers to cosmos.

 

Phantom kisses, light touch to neck—

all of those love letters as blanket—

 

Remember.

 

Stones might be chiseled and ground,

but dates do not remember bashful embraces, 

awkward wet kisses—noses and freckles—love

 

clay does.

 

I paint sepia and ash, charcoal, the colors of remembrance.

 

I feel closer.

Sand and soil, twigs—sing to comets and crescent moon.

I wear my best gown—the one you zipped up with tickling, cold fingers.

 

I feel your breath. Hand in hand, I will join you 

with daises and lilac, rue and fennel—moss and ivy—

all that living.

 

I sink. 

 

Memory just breath on a dying lover’s skin.

Kim Malinowski is a lover of words. Her collection Home was published by Kelsay Books and her novel-in-verse is forthcoming. Her chapbook Death: A Love Story was published by Flutter Press. She writes because the alternative is unthinkable.