The Golden Goose by Anonymous Critic

The Golden Goose

I’ve had dreams of myself from the future standing in a suit by the old church, telling me to keep my head down.

“Just keep your head down. It gets tough out here, and if you’ve got something good, just stick with it. Don’t worry about fame, or the next person.”

And I thought about whether he meant “Don’t believe you can do any better”, or if he meant “Appreciate what you have.”

I own a goose that lays golden eggs. She doesn’t speak English and doesn’t like to dance, but I’m worried that if I cut her open or sell her on the open market they will turn me into an animal too.

And the boy with the long hair in the long suit besides the crumbled pillar knows the truth, and for a moment before I wake up I think I can see it beneath his forehead- there’s something in the eyes, you see.

I believe that someone texted him some information, or gave him a phone call, and he tried to share that information in magazine interviews, but that by the time he reached the studio it didn’t seem important anymore.

That night, in the dream, he turned to the people, the gathering crowds: “look at all my golden eggs!”, he says. “Look at all these half-formed sentences! This natural ability!” They cheer and raise their hands with questions.

“Who taught you well?” “When will you rest?” “What of the feathers in your hair?” “What next, what next?”

I woke up feeling dark and ill and checked my phone. I texted the vet and coaxed information out of her, sentence by sentence.

117

I think about birds sometimes, and try to draw them sitting on branches, or, with words, show apples that hang and fall, or paint a flask’s still life. I let the goose sleep, and I try not to think about her seeking sideways-eyes, or my fingers round her neck.

Instead, my grand stories will swell and be the features of national museums, like fifteen thousand ships in recent cultural memory, with a collection of characters that, together, best embody the virtues of a committed people.

My poems will be a minimum of fourteen lines long, and the ducks that skirt the inspirational fountain below the statue’s cold stare will be my primary natural flare.

The boy in the dream goes home and takes off his gown, his cap, his shoes, picks up a pen and lets the paper drink, thinks about that time he used to wake up scared, and, smiling, signs the paper, lets it drift into a personal drawer below. Huge goose bones line his garden, tall as lakes.

Anonymous Critic

118

Part Four

Dialogues

119