Virginia Woolf

I think a lot about Virginia Woolf

and the way she filled her pockets.

I wonder where the pebbles that pinned her down

have ended up.

Is one living a life as a paperweight,

serving a sentence holding down

pension paperwork? Do they lie in the deeps

of the river,

bragging to their friends about their brush with fame?

Which stones have I stepped on today?

I worry about the atrocities of

the stones that I

tip from my shoes, giving them the chance to trip

up someone less deserving.

 

I think a lot about Virginia Woolf

and the way she filled her pockets.

I think about how she dressed that cold morning

before she died.

Did she wear a scarf to her innundation?

What did she wear under her coat?

Did she bother to bring her house keys that day?

Did she think twice?

Thinking “Today I’ll wear clothes to be buried in.

Clothes to rot with.”

I wonder if she wanted to change her mind,

but perhaps the stones forbade her.

I think about the water in her lungs, and

her last breath rising up to meet my skimmed stones.

 

I think a lot about Virginia Woolf

and the way the filled her pockets.

How long she might have sat on the river bank,

selecting stones.

Did she consider aesthetics? Density?

Mixing shards of flint with the lint

already lining her pockets. Was it a

desperate move?

I think of her hands clawing the dirt of the

river, the sand and grit under

her nails, against the serene way I picture

her as she walks

into the depths of the water, arms spread out

like Christ hanging on the cross.

 

I think a lot about Virginia Woolf

and the spooked swans

That sat to observe her.

What did they think,

sitting, watching her labour away,

diligent in piling stones into her pockets?

Did they approach?

Or were they scared?

Were they afraid of Virginia Woolf

And the way she filled her pockets?