The Muse

Reading her poetry, it stirred me up,
with eye of newt, wing of bat,
and things like that,
so I stopped.

When I called, there was no motion;
there was no potion, yet I fell.

Instead, she slipped a note,
and I read what she wrote:

“Reading your poetry, it stirs me up.
Afterward, I can never remember
what to do with letters.
I connect consonant to vowel,
then vowel to consonant,
but what comes out…
is no language I recognize.”

That’s just how it was;
it happened just like that.

She came out,
in a collared dress,
with thimbles on her thumbs,
and flushed cheeks
that seemed
to say:

“I know more of
hugging and kissing
than I will ever care
to admit.”

And taught me —
how to color my lips,
with pencil crayons,
and keep inside
the lines;

how to be
a sometimes red,
other times deep magenta
kind of girl;

how to come out,
and say

Enacting our poetry, it jumbled us up,
with each forgetting that she
was not the other,
so we stopped.

One thought on “The Muse

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