Humiliation of the Empress of the Animals
Some children want to go farther
than the chain-link fence, the row
of trees on their street. I wanted—more,
something I couldn’t articulate.
Sometimes, I still feel this way.
Then, I expressed it with a drawer
of travel postcards and foreign stamps
in the desk where my father kept his cigars.
To impress my friends, I ate
Play-Doh, red, salty and sickening.
In the backyard, solemn with ritual,
I pointed out the magic doorbell
encrusted with paint—under the sagging
porch—swore, if I rang it
at midnight, all the animals would come,
leopards even, summoned by their empress.
In the darkness,
they gathered around me,
sat on their haunches and waited.
I whispered to my subjects—
furry, silent creatures with luminous eyes.
My friend sits
across from me, strokes her dog,
who gazes at her as if she’s the empress.
She says she’s forgotten
how she snuck into the yard to lay claim
to my power, to ring the magic bell,
and unmasked me in front of everyone
after she waited and waited,
but no animals came.