I hate that I can’t stop thinking about chicken tenders
When I consider this line.
I don’t even know which terrible fast food restaurant
Came up with this name for their chicken strips
But it’s stuck and no matter how I try to push this image away,
Fried, breaded, little strips of chicken
Come dancing back into my brain.
I see Polonius in a little fast food paper hat,
Holding up these deep fried bits of “chicken”
And saying, into the camera, this line –
In the style of a celebrity endorsement advertisement.
And Ophelia, in a booth next to him
Smiles and takes a bite
Vowing “No! She can’t believe it! These are the best tenders she’s ever had!” Then an announcer’s voice tells us the amazing deal and gives us the company tag line
As Polonius and Ophelia take a bite of their tenders simultaneously and grin at each other and nod. No one can believe these tenders!

A little wisp of grass,
She is almost translucent in her green-ness.
She has shot right out of the dark of the earth
Pointing toward the sun.
She will flower soon. Her little shoots are
preparing to push forth little white blossoms.
She’s feeling the shadow of something over her.
Is it the sun passing behind a cloud?
A fox searching for a snack?
One of them passed through here a while back and almost flattened her little stalk
Just as it was beginning, but that was a long time ago, she can barely remember.
This feels like a bigger shadow somehow
And the ground is vibrating a little more as it
Spreads across the garden.
She looks up – and wonders if this is one of those
Mythical humans her friends have told her about
If maybe those are feet
If maybe those are shoes
Headed right in her direction.

Polonius says Pooh! Does anyone else in all of Shakespeare use the word “Pooh?”
No. It is his and his alone.
What would he say it means?
Is it like Pshaw? Or “bullshit!” or “Phew?”
Polonius says Pooh, though.
Pooh pooh pooh
Maybe he’s poo-poo-ing.
Does poo-poo-ing something come from Polonius?
Pooh!

Yes, affection.
Yes, tenders
Yes, tenders of affection
Yes, tenderness
Yes, affectionateness
Yes, kisses
Yes, caresses
Yes, reassuring pats
Yes, playful punches
Yes, tender hair tugs
Yes, curious hands
Yes, warm places
Yes, holding
Yes, hugging
Yes, gazing
Yes, sitting side by side
Yes, holding hands
Yes, passing notes
Yes, secrets
Yes, private jokes
Yes, laughter
Yes, serious stopping
Yes, yes, yes.

Truth has its hands tied with a thick rope.
It’s been locked in the basement, fed with bread and water.
The kidnappers have been holding out for a serious ransom
But they’ve discovered that there’s not as much call for their captive as they thought.
When they made their announcement to the media they expected huge public outcry.
They expected to be found out quickly, vans outside the doors, cameras and guns
and microphones. They expected a stand-off. They have the weapons ready.
But no one came.
They made another statement and sent it out in a marked up brown envelope.
This one didn’t even get a response.
The truth has been patient. It can wait.
It eats its bread and the occasional granola bar and it sits patiently on its chair.
They find it unnerving. They’re afraid to talk to it.
They’ve been quarreling a lot between them, threatening violence.
Having truth in the basement has started to undo them.
When the man with the badge comes to the door
And asks them to give up the truth,
They let it go without a fight.
They don’t ask for their ransom. They don’t beg for a helicopter.
They just cut its bonds and open the door.

“There is space there.”
Someone asked him what he meant by SPACE and he gestured
Between their two shoulders
Between their two chests.
With some people, that space becomes charged. There bubbles a little
Charge in the atmosphere. Sometimes even a person outside the circuit
Can feel it or see it
As if there were little waves of light
Or little floating motes
A shift in texture.
Between lovers, the space is elastic, isn’t it?
Sometimes charged with affection and love
Other times with resentment or fear
And sometimes a mix of all of it.
Who could actually sum up what is between you? There is space.
Understanding more
Becomes very much more complex.

The man beside him is of no real consequence. Polonius barely listens to him burp and laugh his way through the meal. He’s caught some inappropriate remarks about the Queen and several of the ladies of the court. He’s had his eyes on the king; he’s waiting to be summoned, if only with an unconscious expectancy – a single raised eyebrow will be enough to push aside this greasy carcass of a bird and leap to his side.

Meanwhile, the man beside him has moved on to court matters. Polonius nods occasionally so as to not have to pay attention. He has just about decided to get up anyway and simply ask the king if he’d summoned him, when the man next to him thumps him on the back and says something about Ophelia. Polonius turns around and asks the man, wrist deep in his capon now, what he’s just said. The man laughs again and bits of poultry fly out of his mouth.

“I said, how’s about your daughter with that Prince? There’s been all kinds of ducking behind doors, I hear. You don’t watch out, old man, and you’ll end up grandfather to a Prince, if only a bastard one!”
Polonius grits his teeth and snaps the capon’s breastbone in front of him. His dining companion slaps him on the back again and says, “Hey – I’m just joshin’ ya!”
Polonius smiles weakly.
“But I’ll get my wife to knit you some booties just in case.”
Polonius excuses himself, pushes his chair back from the banquet table and with a look to the King (still boisterously drinking and telling stories), he slides out of the room backwards.

Give me some of your private time, baby
And I’ll give you free audience and all my bounty.
Give me some of your private time
And I’ll give you some of mine
I’m free if you want to give your private time to me.

Marry, that very marry is what I meant to say. Marry, that this woman shall not marry this man
Or so it is given out.
Marry, she shall not marry
Because no matter how merrily she loves him,
He’s not meant to marry below him.
Why do we so love stories like these?
The forbidden other class
The servant girl who marries the prince
Or in this case – a humble courtier.
Sometimes it’s the princess with the stable boy
But only in erotica, really, or porn.
Are we all dreaming beyond ourselves?
Aiming at the prince beyond our station
Hoping to be seen
To be plucked up out of our place
And find ourselves transformed
Not just by life
But by society
By class
By the shifting of frame.

Everyone wants to know a secret.
I have discovered that if I want a group of people to be quiet,
I simply make the sound of a whisper
Or lean over to someone and make the whisp whisp sound of secrets passing.
I want to know the secret
That no one seems to know the answer to.
The Way, I guess.
And the Way cannot be known.
That’s what all the old teachings say
Or at least all the ones
That seem to understand something.
Something like how a breeze can carry a smell
Or a memory
Or both.