Isolde of the Rocks
She echoes the ocean
as overture; as calico
forlorn epiphany – to
make her sound soft,
to make Ireland wail
with her, and if she
were the moon Tristan
would be the face cut
from her own erupting
there, where the facet
of falsettos reach
icicle breath across the
ocean. Across the length
of a body broken in its
cry, in not knowing
which color the sails
of the ships will be as
they burn across the
callow horizon; across
her palm as it held the
blade; across her
eyelids staring down
ghost-faces and grandeur.
She was a sound once
long ago, once cackling
on the wind, once
echoing anthropomorphic
indignation, once pressed
tightly to him, echoing
again the phantom bones
cut from her own skin
to lay waste to the ocean
sacrificially.

Every time the wind pulls
your hair across your ear,
it's her own fingers playfully
searching for what has gone from here.