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
