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 fuck 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
 
 

                                     "The Colonel," from The Country Between Us by
                                     Carolyn Forché. Copyright (c) 1981 by Carolyn
                                     Forché. Originally appeared in WOMEN'S
                                     INTERNATIONAL RESOURCE EXCHANGE.