"THE COLONEL", by Carolyn Forche

THE COLONEL

Carolyn Forche

What you have heard is true. I was in his house.
His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His
daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the
night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol
on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare
on its black cord over the house. On the television
was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles
were embedded in the walls around the house to
scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his
hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings
like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of
lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for
calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes,
salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed
the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish.
His wife took everything away. There was some talk of
how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said
hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up,
and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to
me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned
with a sack used to bring groceries home.
He spilled many human ears on the
table. They were like dried peach halves. There
is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his
hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water
glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around
he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people
they can go f--- themselves. He swept the ears to the
floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the
air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the
ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of
the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.

May 1978