Not at all like the Emperor’s.
His robes glowed and glittered
but itched his arms.
Nothing hung right.
And in the end, they dissolved
in the true gaze of a child,
leaving the poor Emperor
as naked as a blue jay
without its feathers.
Nothing blue left.
The Empress, on the other hand,
chose real silk that really flowed
down the contours of her body,
that comforted as well as adorned,
that fit the reality of her person.
The Celts have a blessing
for when one puts on a new garment:
May you live and may you wear it
and may you wear seven more
even better than it.
As a daughter of the King,
I could make do
with a wardrobe like that.
