Stealing Ophelia
by and published in Edition Four of Pomegranate
I think you forgot how to love me ever since I – accidentally –
this must be stressed –
spilled fairy blood all over your white patent shoes.
“Sorry,” I stuttered. Ever since,
whenever I slant a smile at you,
you breathe white fire in my direction.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask.
“Mad is a three letter word,” you reply.
You are mad at me.
To make it up to you, I acquire a magic cape
(no questions asked, no lies doled out),
break into a Manchester art gallery, unhook
Arthur Hughes’ Ophelia from golden hinges,
(his first one), and replace it with a LOT FOR RENT –
STRICTLY AMATEURS sign. In italics underneath,
I scrawl – being a redhead is optional, but if you’re over nineteen,
you’re nothing –
as an opaque afterthought.
I proceed to make a speedy getaway
involving a jetpack, an old lady in unsuspecting lilac,
and three marmalade sandwiches.
I take the train and return home around three-ish, announcing
“Meet Ophelia,” sotto voce.
“You’re pale like her eyes, and hooded as well,” you note.
I apologise and take off my cape,
and you shoot me a smile
like red enamel in the rain.
Katie Allen
Katie Allen was raised in the desolate wastes of the North, but due to happenstance is currently studying English and Creative Writing at Warwick, of all places. She is eighteen and has never been published before, but this is okay because she spends all her time daydreaming anyway, usually about pashminas and cherry smoothies. If all else fails, when she eventually grows up she wants to run an ice cream parlour.