What had she wanted, unknowable—
within those lips, be heard, could have occurred
she did even know? Such power, possessed,
dispossesses had she wit, the words, words, words,
pure spontaneity of ignorance
spoken at last out loud, to say if not who
then that vitality unspecified,
entire life pursued, continually deceived,
egregiously misled, disappointed—
although promised, never on Earth fulfilled.

This agony curtailed, herself set free
from assumption, false alternative buried:
like Ophelia, submerged beneath the stream
of her imagining, contemplative
above, aware below, beyond overhead,
no one to stifle her, nothing behind,
only sky, brimmed to reflect emptiness,
the absence of bounds, vanquished bond denied,
balm subsequent to satisfy, extend hands,
touch and receive flesh instead of flowers.

Note: This poem first appeared in The Guinevere Review