Feel of the Cloth - Prartho Sereno

[Larry Robinson]

Feel of the Cloth
 
The emperor wanted to believe
the itinerant tailors—that the robe they’d
made for him had been woven of light. 
 
Which, of course, it was.
Of sunlight and air.
His heartbeat quickened as they
pointed out the iridescent beads of dew
and delicate taffeta of fog.
The pale blue moonglow trim.
 
The emperor wanted to hear
the whisper of wingbeats as he
fingered the cloth, to smell
the sweet decay of the forest floor. 
 
And so he did. As he dove head-first
into that glorious garment he heard
and smelled uncountable things.
It was like nothing, he said
when he regained his wits, like nothing 
 
he’d ever put on. Like wearing a cloud.
Or a breeze. It’s not of this world,
he said to the tailors, who nodded
and smiled… Which, come to think of it,
was their only lie. For this world 
 
was precisely what they used for their warp,
our commonest threads their woof.  
     
     - Prartho Sereno
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