Ophelia’s Video Selfie   Act 1   Green girl in a garden. A girl, a veil of green.   Videos in the garden direct how I’m to be   or not to be seen.   Act 2   Dear Hamlet, Hi, Eff you.   Act 3   For every forty-two selfies I edit three:   The bare ankle, DM’d to thee.   The folded hands: my father’s inbox.   The smile for Laertes.   Act 4   You uploaded my ankle to Instagram: “Get thee to a nunnery.” And the worst: “slut”   Act 5   They say it was love, turned me half-mad:   For you, I tore out half my hair and sang pop ballads.   Act 6   For you, I used a public washroom barefoot,   I beat sleek outlines of men with a half-opened umbrella.   Act 7   My father went mad, raging softly in the velvet folds of nightclubs.   Act 8   You tried to halve him, too.   Act 9   The eternal observer, you see us fall endlessly and artistically out of trees, impale ourselves neatly on pointed sticks, poison our lovers’ clean ears. So measured, considerate, our tragedies.   Act 10   I am eternally considerate, tragic, and bored; Denmark, a prison. My iPhone, taken for evidence.   Act 11   Rosencrantz said, I can replace it for $200 on Craigslist.   Act 12   I am no longer as eternally bored.   Act 13   This is what I see:   You, the narcissist poet, the genius, the enraptured heir.   I, the dead girl of their dreams.   Great men quote you in their speeches to the Queen.   Women become me for Halloween:   “Get us to a nunnery.” “Get us to a nunnery.”       Hamlet Receives Ophelia’s Video Selfie   Act 1   I didn’t watch the video she sent.   Act 2   Out of protest I watched the video she sent   without sound. Her lips moved   greenly, like a girl’s.   Act 3   I put pants on and went out.   Act 4   At the club, I checked my pants with Rosencrantz. He was working the door.   He said in the VIP Polonius has some coke.   A thrust, a poke; we barely spoke.   Act 5   I DM’d her a selfie   of the club, of me, of the lights   spiraling behind me. I was spiraling, too   but she did not see: to be or not to be, she deleted my selfie.   Act 6   I did not tip the cab driver.   Act 7   Out of protest I ceased eating; I shrank and became gaunt.   Act 8   I ordered a mushroom pizza.   Act 9   I watched the video with sound.   It said, Hey, listen— but I was editing my LinkedIn.   Act 10   I unmade her mad with love: I made rapid-fire, pouting selfies.   In her video she was saying, Hey, listen—   but I was deleting my LinkedIn.   Act 11   Out of protest I proceeded onto the promontory. I said, Hey, Protestants, watch this:   Act 12   Her video basically said, You Her video basically said, Me Her video basically should have said, Down for Whatever?   Act 13   I said, Listen, maid I am Hamlet, the Dane   and I leapt into her grave, I climbed inside her grave—   she lay like a fish, cold and plain—   I said, Listen I am Hamlet the Dane—   her small, offensive body, splayed—   In a nutshell I am a king of infinite space,   a permanent arrangement of words   and her, a deleted face.
Megan Jones lives in Vancouver, BC. She is a writer of poetry and short fiction, as well as the Communications Coordinator for ZG Communications, a boutique marketing agency working with authors, publishers and not-for-profits.