No Clothes

Where is the woodcutter’s youngest son,

the poor widow’s clever daughter? Surely

somewhere there’s an enchanted sword, a prince

in bear’s clothing, a talking cat, a key

to a secret door. Isn’t there a lamp?

The old story is prepared: the mad king,

the wicked grand vizier, the slick harem

of daughter clones, the evil scheming sons,

the preening queen, the nodding gentry.

Have all the poets lost their tongues? Have all

the instruments come unstrung? Is there no drum?

Or is there one, (or are there many?)

ready to shout without fear or shame,

what everyone knows but will not name.

Mary Pratt

New Haven