The King's Color

by Haley Moody

​

Philippe I to his brother, Louis XIV 

 

I was born a cloud.  

Immaculate.  

Untouched by man.  

But the moment I  

Got too close to the sun,  

Mother shot me out of the sky,  

And I fell into a dress,  

Her words reverberating  

Within the Absolute  

As she called me  

“My darling, little girl”  

In a soft, bittersweet voice.  

 

Born in second place,  

I was never meant to be king,  

But if illness took you, Louis,  

France wouldn't look to me.  

Nobody wants a “corrupted” king;  

Not one touched by the Italian vice  

And surely, not one dressed  

As a shepherdess. 

  

If only a king can wear blue,  

I'll show up to the ball  

In a gown made of blue silk,  

Its edges lined with  

white Venetian lace,  

Bodice drenched in pearls.  

I'll be dripping in diamonds,  

Silver clung to my wrists.  

And the ladies of court  

Will be jealous, because  

I'll be the prettiest of all.  

What will you say  

To me then, dear brother?  

That I’m a disgrace?

​