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Behind the Tapestry


Winter’s leaving here, deserting the rivers and trees. I’ll survey the damage from safety, a shrunken counselor veiled behind the tapestry, the symbol and scrape shuddering in the squall. Osric, Ophelia and sweet prince, won’t you navigate the North and Baltic Sea and sail into Denmark’s sun?

I’ve been expecting you, a tragedy holding out for champion, the gray and wide-eyed cape to shroud my eyes and mouth like a theatre mask, a circus, a camouflage, a falseness uncalled for. I can see you walking beside me on the water’s frame, in the retreating silence, two famished beasts leaning silently into view like a scolded child, poking their heads around my judgment without the songbird’s consent. Won’t you come to me, join me on my walk? Love?


© 2011 by mark prime

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