The Fashion of La Folie

By SUSAN KINSOLVING

 

1754

She insisted that a gazebo, grotto, and gate be added
to the Estate. Two obelisks were next. And soon, a sham
castle was built on adjoining land. Then she planned
a Greek temple for a statuesque Aphrodite and six
water-spouting nymphs. Plus, a pagoda! Her follies
were, as Lord Clark said, monuments to mood. But
she had so many! Her fortune fed her fantasies until
one stormy day, she was caught in a downpour. Under
the rubble-stone roof of her hidden hermitage for hours,
she waited, her peasant costume sopping, her doeskin
slippers soaked. The cracking sound was not thunder.
Mossy timbers crashed on her kerchiefed head. Found
dead, she was soon entombed in a mausoleum. In time,
vandals destroyed the weeping angels, Corinthian capitals,
and garlanded urns. Her resting place was a ruin, a final folly.

Susan Kinsolving has published the poetry collections The White Eyelash, Dailies & Rushes, a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, Among Flowers,and the forthcoming My Glass Eye. As a librettist, she has had works performed with the Marin Symphony, Santa Rosa Symphony, Glimmerglass Opera, and The Baroque Choral Guild in New York, The Netherlands, Italy, and California.

[Purchase your copy of Issue 02 here.]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

The Fashion of La Folie

Related Posts

Headshot of Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Nocturne for Dark Things

AIMEE NEZHUKUMATATHIL
One of the marvels of my life— / an alphabet. A whole green and mossy / world can be made and remade / from just twenty-six dark curlicues. / Here’s more dark: sometimes birds sleep / tucked under a giraffe’s dusky armpit / and sometimes fungi fatten only at night.

A fishing boat on Dal Lake in Kashmir

[Freedom Song]

FATIMAH ASGHAR
i plead, come help free me from me. what an overworked god / the policemen’s gun turning towards the sand, the ocean’s azaadi / crashing blue wave after blue into the fishing boat, thieving / life from its water. everything is a freedom song, i hear azaadi / in the wind & in the flood

Supermarketing

LAUREN DELAPENHA
For example, the last time I asked God / to kill me I was among the lemons, remembering // the preacher saying, God is a God who is able / to hunger. I wonder, // aren’t we all here for that fast / communion of a stranger reaching // for the same hydroponic melon?