Hamlet In Hirsute Poem by Terese Svoboda

Who goes there? Hamlet
in hirsute, nude as a pickle,
dragging the skull as toy.

His chest hair waves
To be or not? or Tis nobler-
Whatever. Check the curtain.

Spy vs. spy vs. spy—
it's community, just healthy
curiosity. Ophelia doesn't sleep,

she circles her bowl,
eyes alert to all sides,
I's everywhere.

When nine of the elect
stand on chairs, we ask:
How high are those chairs?

They grow so old whispering
their lips whisker,
their tongues shake.

If they didn't have ears—
but no one says that.
We wash wash wash their hands.