Yearning for a Beetle
(after John Millais’ Ophelia)
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
̶ ̶ Hamlet (Act I, Scene III)
Robin Redbreast came to me last night
And sang softly of her
I demanded to know more
And he opened his brazen little beak
In it I placed a Stag Beetle
‘Does she still weep, beneath the surface?
Has the water washed petals from her hair, thorns from her skin?’
Between greedy mouthfuls
Robin Redbreast told me
Of a maiden fair
Who floats
And with her frozen lips open hosts larvae under her tongue
Cursed tadpoles!
Mocking me as you flit over her soft damp skin
Would that my hollow fists could smite thee
Alas, it is not to be
Polly
The night lacked electricity; a caged beast starving slowly beneath matted grey fur. Like any other night, the sun was determined to hide. She sank and she found us in the dark and damp place. Rolling in her warmth, we sprouted fungi behind our ears and between our toes and we were glad to decompose.
As the moon rose along came Polly.
She came to us from Belfast, with her pale skin and dangerous hair that danced like flying embers. Her irises were deep tarns lapping softy against pupils that held all the stars unseen. Her voice shattered glasses and hearts. She glowed! She shone! She flickered and sparked with the fizz and crack of snapping synapses. With Polly and the moon we rose too. We rose and shook the rot from our limbs as the cool night dried our skin. We ran hand in hand until our drumbeats become one and we sang! We danced! With Polly and the moon we burned with a synchronised calamity.
We were all there with her; swaying, tapping, shaking. Ecstatic rattlesnakes. Tears fell freely down our flushed cheeks and we thanked her and reached to grasp the hem of her emerald dress. But she was gone and only the moon remained. We asked the moon where she had gone but the moon did not know. We looked down and saw distant galaxies swirling fast and then slow and then fast again. We looked up and saw the same.
When we closed our eyes all we saw was Polly.
Tom McKenzie writes stories, screenplays and poems. One of his short stories, In My Mind Alone, has recently been published in Voiceworks Issue #134 ‘Vice’. His writing often exists somewhere between ‘real’ and ‘surreal’ and grapples with angst and ecstasy. Away from his desk, Tom enjoys hiking, live music and cups of tea. Follow his writing on Instagram @rhymetimetelevision_
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