By Kathryn Wassell
He paints her posed and poised.
It would not do to have the face turned over—
No—it would not do
To have that pretty face spoiled,
A muddy death no match for a
Pale beauty disposed.
Toward no end, flowering, she floats
Among the weeds, among the leaves.
His blue holds up the body—
Palms in resurrection,
Sweet parted lips,
To sing: I will my Lord.
In those last lines drawn,
The painter laid the green,
Then drowned the girl.
What fruit lies in the river
Or in the eye of the artist?
None. Let water wash over thin skin.
'Ophelia' by Sir John Everett Millais