The queen and her handmaid have gone tragically to the girls’ bathroom—
Today is Jessica’s turn to be queen; next week she will be an attendant.
Then it might be my Courtney, Ashley or Jennifer who plays the monarch betrayed.
I teach Oedipus right after lunch.
The crowd is not moved by his suffering—they are merely impatient
with a man forewarned who would kill his father, marry his mother
(who must have been by their calculations at least 40)
and produce four children—by—mistake—how gross!
I entice them—pander to them—conjure images
of gouged-out eyeballs hanging in strings from bloody sockets.
But Crystal and Jessica have gone to the bathroom.
Their script is all about love betrayed—while destiny
drifts like fog in the halls.
When they are gone, the other girls look knowingly at one another.
Gravely, one speaks for the chorus—a strophe:
“Jessica has personal problems.”
Then another: “Her boyfriend dumped her—”
The boys look away or down, fearing reprisal—accusations of complicity.
“I see,” I say.
They think me totally blind.
The chorus goes berserk with shrill sounds
anatomizing the queen—antistrophe.
Clearly we are studying the wrong play.
What flaming garment will be woven in the bathroom
for this witless Jason’s new queen?
“Stop!” I speak imperiously—I am curious of course.
I always want to hear their stories
even though I know how they will end.
But my role in this play is merely prophetic—
to go unheeded.
I glare into the restive crowd
with eyes wide as the entrance to Hades.
“Ladies, Gentlemen, open your books
to Jocasta’s desperate speech
“Tis best to live at random, as one can…”