Hamlet: The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost
Bring back those tangled
woven threads of lips
fluctuating; a lavish suckling
at the breast of motherhood -
where those fathers disembark
for speaking foreign tongues
and riddles of player kings, and traps
set with mice in the snarls of your
crooked teeth. Hamlet is
tenured in my eyes; moth-eaten,
tied to the ferocious gallows of son-dom,
the macadam sharp in his bloated eye,
the thought for weeping, the father for
reaping and the son still seeking the wayward
ghost on its weary way home. Galloping
across those same soft noosed verbiage
of cuckold and rabbit, the maids
all surrendered to madness, and Hamlet
kisses her cheek one last time, yet the sun
sets time and time again for conjectures
sake and we all hide our heads in heady
shame for the noise that startles us into
the lobbies where that unfamiliar ranker
ravishes us and a rainy-mildew covers our brows.
The father is a plague, Hamlet
and worms will hasten to meet their match
and share in your banquet.