Ophelia puked hourly dawn till dusk,
retching mucous slobber, then spewing air.
Scum that I am, I never stopped thinking
what a beauty: small Icelandic hooters,
Femme d’Bumpers, on whom all fun depends.
Woman’s the car, man the hood ornament.
She lay there so sick she wasn’t human,
more an engine blowing jello gaskets.
Yet, because of her Helen of Troy throat
and Cleopatra eyes, the world still turned
because puking beauties are still beauties
and keep on moving us. They’re still our Porsche,
our cop car, hearse, ambulance, and fire truck.
We couldn’t cool her down. She was our bus,
she was our red-faced unicyclist
hauling us all. The earth her wheel, she lay
there wretching us all through the Pearly Gates.

Analysis, meaning and summary of D.C. Berry's poem Hamlet Off-Stage: She Wheel

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

Do you have any comments, criticism, paraphrasis or analysis of this poem that you feel would assist other visitors in understanding the meaning or the theme of this poem by D.C. Berry better? If accepted, your analysis will be added to this page of American Poems. Together we can build a wealth of information, but it will take some discipline and determination.