‘FORTY THOUSAND BROTHERS COULD NOT, WITH ALL THEIR QUANTITY OF LOVE, MAKE UP MY SUM.' (HAMLET, SHAKESPEARE) Poem by Peter Verhelst

Finally the undercurrent releases its prey,
torn leaves, polystyrene. I wade
through chest-deep, frothing water. A mattress.
A refrigerator. A shoe like an unsteady boat.

I will sleep in the fridge, drink from the shoe.
I will slice open the mattress, cutting through skin and layers of fat,
my head up to the neck in its maw
to tear out the skull.

So much is lost. We dive

down to where the water is black and viscous, my skull and I,
a new species of fish with lungs and outrageously large eyes,
searching for a slow, luminous, velvet tail.

Deep, lonely song that makes itself felt for miles around.

Where will we find Ophelia's body, in which wound
does her love shine, metal hook through a lip,
a dentist's dilator in her mouth as if she's surprised?

Silver dresses floating in the water
will soon drag themselves up onto land and we,

my skull and I, will declare war on everything,
all for the beauty of Ophelia.