Work Text:
The Prince’s New Clothes
My father had ravens –
one on each shoulder –
that murmured ceaselessly to him
through every feast,
every conversation
we ever had.
The only unflagging attention
I ever received
was from the gold curve hiding
his empty socket.
Constant, they growled to him
stories from the broad human pool:
fish-flicker thoughts from the top,
time-muddied memory from below.
“Listen,” I said, and
“listen to me.”
“I am, son,” but
over the growl of avian voices,
the cluck of raven laughter.
I have made myself a cloak
of fine black feathers.
They throw color from shadow
under the light of rainbows.
This cloak whispers only flight.
Flight and the faint cries
of still-damp blood.