Hamlet Contemplates the Skull
of Gabriel Edmund, Recently Born

Calcium, carbon, clay that the potter left
Open for filling — oh what a piece of work
Is. . . drool? Strange how even my words have grown
Uncertain, the graveyard humor struck dumb
By this little skull I hold, my hand smelling
Of antiseptic soap. . . alas, poor baby!
If I let go, something would snap; it can't
Support what it's doing here; it needs me now
More than my father's ghost. Oh hand, oh head!
This poetry insists, will not hold still,
Will not be meaningless. I bring the face
Up close to mine and look into the wide
Blue eyes — or are they blue? The brow is furrowed.
I worry about those pimply, hectic cheeks,
Blue veins instead of hair on top, the heartbeat
Pulsating in the seam, the four corners,
The skull hole — I don't dare touch it! There are things
In there undreamt of in your philosophy. . .
I mean, the cerebrum forming out of ooze,
An expanding universe of splitting cells.
Slowly, sound starts working up inside,
Ka-ka-ka-ka, like a cough or catching of breath,
Bursts forth, surprises him — the startle reflex,
Hands shoot up in the air — flailing hands,
Expressive hands, fingers (not mere fists)
Moving, conducting the Philharmonic, yes!
He is believable. I will not let him
Fall. Whatever I was, I've made it better.
Screaming! Oh little skull. Fill up with teeth.


Published in Blue Unicorn, June 1988