Brief

Drowning itself is quick and silent.
If I had to, I’d liken it
to a prayer.
Sweet Ophelia knows.
The brevity of her own
tempered
inhalations
keeping pace with the slowing of her
cells, the cooling of her blood.

Hardly epic.
Factual.
“Dear God, I’m drowning.”
punctuated by
celebrated by
gasps.

Tragic as
the absence of her name
once buried.