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.

Please follow and like us:
0

87total visits,3visits today