Resurrecting Ophelia
By Emily George
Tosca, come down and join me here in the crowds.
We all know the end; we know you leap.
But before your final note resounds
I would take you in my arms to keep.
I would warn you of that traitorous creep.
Quiet, no songs, I like the pretense.
Tragedy averted, passion asleep.
I see no need for something more intense.
I am sick to death of beautiful shrouds
On the stage. Yes, Cio-cio, Giselle, the deep
Space of the afterlife calls you. The sounds
Of Desdemona smothered seep
Into the crevasses of my brain’s cheap
Ticket row. But stop. Show more sense,
Give the scythe-man nothing to reap.
I see no need for something more intense.
Mimi, follow money, live on the grounds
That love can come later. Dido, you sheep,
Drop him while you can. Those compounds,
Odette and Odile, laugh in a heap.
Ophelia, I love you best. The steep
Cliff by the river smells of incense
From funerals. Breathe air, don’t weep.
I see no need for something more intense.
Everyone, pretend together and sweep
Away their deaths. Perhaps with no suspense
The girls may just learn housekeep.
I see no need for something more intense.
Emily George is a reading tutor at an elementary school in the Columbia River Gorge. When she isn’t surrounded by little ones, she (unsurprisingly) reads an awful lot of Shakespeare, and would eventually like to be an English Professor.
Emily, your poem is astonishing. I wish I knew more of the literary background to it.