Is Hamlet like Prince Hal? Free to mess around
Until ascending the throne, at which point, he is meant
To throw over his boyish pursuits.
Is Ophelia Hamlet’s Falstaff?
Rather than his father calling him in to read him the riot act
(At least not that we see or know of)
Or being called into action by rebels (unless Claudius can be counted the ultimate rebel)
Hamlet casts aside his previous life
After a visit from the after life.
What if Henry IV was the prequel to Hamlet rather than Henry V?
What if Prince Hal grew up to be Hamlet instead of Henry?
I suddenly want to see a mash up of these two plays.

Can Hamlet command Ophelia to talk with him?
Is this a royal thing? You can make girls you like come talk with you? Score.
If that’s the case, though –
How in the world is a royal subject supposed to refuse him?
Is what’s happening here a raise in status for Ophelia? When she refuses his letters, shuts her door on him,
Is she breaking royal command in addition to her faith?
Who’s got the lockdown on Danish Royal Protocol?

I have tried this strategy, I confess.
When I have felt taken for granted, un-noticed
Or unacknowledged, I have stepped back –
Made myself something scanter
Taken my maiden presence elsewhere
In the hopes that my maiden presence
Might be felt more keenly
Next to my maiden absence.

Through cheek
Through ear
From chest to neck and up
Heart circling hot blood
Heating up the surfaces
Turning them pink with desire
Soul slid to the side
Tongue searching
Finds a promise
And speaks it.
Is the soul prodigal because it hides from heat
Or does it burn with the blood?
Is it the soul itself making mischief?
How do soul and desire mix?
At times, I suppose, they might compete, yes –
But sometimes the soul speaks through desire
Sometimes desire speaks without soul.

I think of a mousetrap
All springs and tension and snappings.
The mechanics of a mousetrap seem ancient somehow but also
Beautifully modern and scientific.
There are an inordinate number of mice in our apartment
So I am fantasizing about these
Springs and tensions and snappings
Wishing I could rig every corner and wall of my house
With no need for bait because they’re there anyway.
I’m not sure what sort of elaborate construction
Would catch a woodcock
Whatever a woodcock is.
It sounds like a dildo made of walnut or oak
But I’m pretty sure Polonius isn’t talking about such things with his daughter,
Especially one he’s counseling to keep her legs closed
By keeping her mouth shut and eyes blind to the man
Who wants to love her.

You can tell I was born in the 70s sometimes
Like when I read “Go to, go to” and all I can think of is R2D2
Because it rhymes and the name R2D2 is deeply embedded in my consciousness,
Despite the fact that I didn’t see Star Wars when it first come out,
I was a little too young.
But the kids around me all had Star Wars toys and I knew, just from playground games and recess chatter, that R2D2 was my favorite.
Perhaps because of the sound of his name
Or for the affection I heard in the voices of those who’d seen the movie
But I knew, when I DID see Star Wars
That I’d be rooting for the little beeping robot.

I’m standing in a dressing room

At a trendy vintage clothing shop.

My mother found this spot somehow,

I don’t know how – there wasn’t an internet then –

But we’ve come to the big city and we have come

To explore the vintage clothes. To buy them, too.

I am currently wearing a yellow ruffled gown sort of thing.

I’m 14 but this makes me feel like I’m twenty.

The guy who runs the register has given me a free bit of make-up (orange eye shadow)

And I feel amazing. I’m not going to buy this dress.

I have no occasion for it. We’re looking for

Something for me to wear to the theatre, to Broadway

And even I know that this yellow ruffled affair that makes me look like a Southern Belle princess would be too much – even for Broadway, which I’ve been dreaming of for years.

I try on other things. Things I bought, I’m sure.

Some Army issue pants, some funky neckties, a dressing coat perhaps?

At this age, clothes mean so much to me.

I am sure that every single thing I put on explains everything about me.

I don’t look like anyone else I know.

I walk into school wearing hats I adore but I resent that I must remove them due

To dress codes (The 40s style small ones give me serious hathead.)

 I am fully committed to my look.

I hate gym class. Mostly because of gym

But partly because I have to wear a t-shirt and shorts

(I try to find funky urban t’s to make up for it.)

 

I am happy with this image in the mirror,

In this yellow-white gown with my orange eye shadow

That’s made a grown-up man flirt with me for the first time (that I know of)

And this bit of style, of all the crazy things I wore in the subsequent four years

Is the thing I remember with the most fondness.

I aspire to tender myself more dearly.
Sometimes life can be a series of occasions to diminish myself
To deny my truth
To contain my body
My emotions
My desires and impulses
And we get so good at denying, so very good
At pretending that we are not what we are
That we forget what we were pretending
And we insult the secret parts of ourselves
Beat ourselves up for the thin-ness of our disguise.
But to tender myself dearly
Seems even nicer than simply treating myself with kindness
Finding tenderness, dear tenderness for my own self
Conjures up a motherly version of myself
Wrapping a child version of me in a soft blanket
Stroking her hair and singing her loving lullabies.
Here, though, I suspect that Polonius is not
Thinking of wrapping his daughter up in a blanket,
(Though maybe that would protect her from this danger he perceives)
Given that he’s been talking about money so far – he’s likely
Playing on the legal tender idea
For which one could pay dear.
A metaphor that was tender and sweet
Becomes an exploration about worth and value,
Becomes about her dowry almost.
Is tendering her father a fool
Bankrupting him somehow?
Or is the poor phrase an old vaudeville standard
The punchline of the hour, the catchphrase –
The “Where’s the beef?” of the Danish court.

This is how you change a tire.
This is how you write a poem.
You draw a horse. Like this.
Never raise your voice.
No you can’t go to the bathroom.
No you can’t get water.
Are you listening to me?
How are you going to
Learn if you don’t obey?