“When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook…
To muddy death.” (Hamlet 4.7)
You went mad wearing fennel
columbines, rue, daisies, and violets
his “antic disposition” as much a mystery to you as it is to us
his love brief
his language full of ache and contradiction
measured poison and purity in the same cup
unable to face the truth about his lusty mother
he was a poor detective
and you the untrustworthy dame in the shadows
used by all the men in your life
part of the verdict love
your eyes must have been sad for a long time
before you finally recognized your father
you wore columbines for him
daisies were for the king
violets for the prince
and nothing for the queen
you had guessed she was the problem
near the end the duplicity of water was your only friend
you loved its clarity even though you did not recognize yourself
it all felt like a cold dream
when the water slowly pulled you down
thinking this is how the faithful sun feels at the end of the day