by Andie Joon
about the writer:
I'm a writer from Port Townsend, WA.
The embalming action of the water
And the viscous skin of its surface
Buries the memory of Aristotelian plot,
And congeals bouquets of insoluble flowers
In and around the death-spot of her neck,
Making vandals of their choking petals—
Crimson shapes of illiterate significance
Decapitating the evidence of actual cause.
Ophelia, painted amid vague remembrance,
Whose colors madden the margins and
Confuse the structural canopy of sense,
Is teemed into vision by a bawdy boot
Removing itself from a puddle of oil,
Or a well, on the point of spilling over,
That upon its plaque glorifies purpose,
Prophecy, and evangelistic beauty—
So much of a cadaver is she that
Her skin is no longer milky, but analgesic,
Detached upon the blue of her background
As if she were a conjured thought,
A horoscopic luminary of stars equated.
Her hair floats its charcoal craft,
Bulging against the unflinching isle
Of her sewed-up eyes and the altruism
Of her painstakingly practiced smile.