About the work

A closer look.

The poems never give him young. They hand you the finished thing: the liar, the mother of monsters, the one chained under a serpent. So the boy here is invention. A green coat with gold clasps and no armour yet, a small flame balanced on one hand, and a grey wing in the other that he holds far too casually. He has already taken something that was not his, and it does not weigh on him at all. That is the whole trouble in one frame, before any of it happened to him. One JPG that prints clean at 20x16 in. The telling admits the boy is invention, then says why: the poems only hand you the finished liar. Print it yourself, or take the file to any print shop and ask for 20x16. It is the same picture either way.