The Book of Jane Foole, by Sanda Moore Coleman

Family of Henry VIII, by artist unknown (UK) c. 1545

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The Book of Jane Foole


I. The Way of the Foole

It is not enough to spring and twist and tumble. A good foole
is a living foole who must be adorned with the finest
of shoes, made grand with bows and bells and ribbons
and pointed toes to separate me from everyday fooles,
political fooles, and fooles in love. I burn through them
like they are made of wax and I am rewarded
with more, with better, with pride. In court, I relax
on a velvet cushion, point observations like arrows, 
wit the unsentimental weapon of the artificial foole.
The foole from the next kingdom over does not
have so many shoes, nor so grand, my mistress tells me;
he is not as merry as Jane. And it is true,
the Queen's Foole wants for nothing except her freedom.

II. Jane Foole Goes to Church

I go because after my hair is shorn, the priest refuses
me. On those few days before, I stand with the others, close
my eyes to listen to the deep-belled sounds
of wolfish Rome, moved by the music
of the words if not the meaning—although
I learned the meanings of all the words, unlike
the many who rely on faith that the words are sacred
and true. (But the truth is not always sacred
and the sacred is not always true.) I keep
this knowledge in my hair, it rises from my thoughts
like steam, plumps from roots to ends and this is why
it must be cut, then shaven to a cap of shadows,
because no foole needs too much knowledge
beyond the sleight of hand that good magic requires.
Twice-times a year, I go to remind myself that mystery
is my work, as well.

III. Foole in Love

My heart speeds at his entrance, but my face,
painted white, is a mask. Then—is it love or gratitude,
to meet his eyes and somehow find recognition
there? No, Jane the Foole will not allow such folly.
I look down, look away, look anywhere else,
but too late—in a flash, my humanity is witnessed
by the flint-eyed ladies of the court. Do you love him,
Jane, they laugh despite the fact that I have turned
to silent stone. I memorize each mocking feminine face,
fashion an arrow for each jagged feminine heart,
wait for the time when I can bring them down with words.
Later, in the garden, he presents me with a knot
of flowers, and my blood tingles through me
in a way that feels like drowning and flying and I reach
for them before looking up into his eyes and seeing
his laughter there, and here am I, a foole of note,
having forgotten that to be apart is what I do. 

IV. No Foole Like an Old Foole

I leave the leaping to the young. It takes two
young fooles to take the place of Jane's dancing feet.
But none can match my quick tongue, even now,
when I am slow to rise from my place at her feet
and my dry bones crack like autumn twigs. These
days, she wants always to know my opinion: Jane,
is this dress becoming? Jane, should I forgive
him? Jane, who should I trust? Jane, is my child
in heaven? I soothe her with magic, amuse her
with words, but I know better than to have opinions
about royalty. The foole from one kingdom over lost
his livelihood, and then his life, because he could not bend.

V. Freed Foole

These days I spend in contemplation
of the bone-deep pain of time passing, and the short,
straight road ahead. No one asks a thing of me,
because no one notices me, and this invisibility
is no longer a magic trick. Mornings, I wake before
dawn, walk through the blue light of the coming
day to greet the dependable sea. The Queen's former foole
is treated with a kind of consideration, left to her own
with a girl to serve her needs and whims. Free too late
to seek a different fortune, live a different life, no caravan
of actors moving up and down the coast now, no slipping
into characters to conjure not just laughter but real
tears, now my dream is only for the warmth
of the hearth, the full stomach, the comfort of soft, reclining
days and still, tranquil nights of untroubled slumber.

VI. Death of the Foole

There was a time I held the courts
of Europe in my hands, helpless
with laughter, half in love with my
words, my jests, my stories, which they would repeat
endlessly to one and each other, “Were you there
when Jane said this? Did you see Jane do that?” I was loved
in my way, treasured for my art, talked about
in my time. I remember. I wasted nothing
then but time. Now time is all I will not waste. 
I no longer ponder the lives that might
have been for me; what good is regret to the dying?
No priest for Jane, though my mistress wishes it.
Jane on her toes, Jane at her best, Jane the Foole
does not believe in what comes next.
Bury me wherever you wish. Behind
my closed eyes, I fly with the birds.

Sanda Moore Coleman

Sanda Moore Coleman lives in New Hampshire with her husband and daughter. She has been an editor, a writer, and a teacher. Her poems have appeared in Inkwell, Tar River Poetry, and Midwestern Gothic, among others.