It was said of the jailer’s daughter that she sought the flood, that she might be saved by the man who came calling, before she returned in her trembling weakness to the river to sing a song whose words she mostly forgot.
No, it was not deliberate, her fall from the branch of the willow where she sat. Neither was it abrupt, after long schooling in the art of locking her in, to study what will shapeshift and erupt in the steam of her laughter over the prize they would have lauded her for becoming, if she kept on. With these men who cry at her breast while wondering what to do with themselves. To be? Or not? Me?
A mind unbalanced by grief, her physician decreed––for the father, no doubt, they declared. Or Laertes on his high horse, tossing advice to the ground, or Hamlet so eager to seed her that he burst into her space, who then complained it would not cost her a groaning to take off his edge, his constant edge.
And always the question of what to do with it but remind her back to his need, singing?
And he sings. O sister when I come to knock at your door, may you be no stranger to knowing where the cuts are meant to happen. To her, but for himself: O sister, o daughter, o mother, o wife––it is your breath, your blood, your only life.
Great piece – really enjoyed this.
Thank you for this kind comment, Chris! : )