The Egg

after Carolyn Forché

The old rhymes are TRUE. I was in his castle. The king's men carried in trays of coffee and sugar. The princess grew her hair long, the prince went out on his nightly quest. There were daily proclamations, melancholy danes, a sword on the cushion beside him. The moon sizzled on its black skillet over the castle. On the television was a cooking show. In Old English. Sparkled teflon was embedded in the walls around the castle to scoop the legs out from anyone balancing there. On the windows there were gratings like those in grocery stores. We had brunch, a selection of omelets, bagels, a gold bell was on the table for calling the cook. The cook brought bacon bits, salt, a type of cream cheese. I was asked how I enjoyed the kingdom. There was a brief commercial in medieval French. The king's men took everything away. There was some talk of how difficult it had become to rhyme. The king's horses called hello from the stables. The king told them to shut up, and pushed himself from the throne. The jester said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The king returned with a sack used to carry money from the counting house. He spilled many egg shells on the table. They were like broken Dresden china. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, flung it into the moat. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell Humpty Dumpty he can go fuck himself. He swept the shells to the floor with his arm and held the last of his coffee in the air. Something for your nursery rhymes, no? he said. The shells in the moat bent under the yolk of his voice. The shells on the floor were crushed to the ground.

© Carolyn Forsure