Epithalamion beginning with The Tempest
Because Ariel speaks of a king’s son,his boats aflame, crying Hell is empty,and all the devils are here, I ask myson to tell me about love. He chalks crownsand rockets across newsprint, draws wolves, rainclouds, an owlet, says You love me—and mymama. I love triceratops. We try these mornings to bring ourselves to trust inthe sound…