Dear Mama

“Alas, he is mad!” Of course he is mad.

While you sleep in an enseamed bed

Hamlet is bereft of his purpose

Of course he is mad.

You inflicted wounds, frustrations

To make me feel like the bearer of a nation

Whose flag does not represent me.

It resents me. Denmark is a prison.

You do not have eyes for grief, mother,

So I’ll tell it to you plainly

Do not think it hath not been willed

That madness hath Polonius killed.