November 22nd, 2009

savannah

Oh, that muse

I'm entering a poetry contest and ran across this poem I wrote once about the relationship between writer and muse, and I'd like to share it with you today:





An Understanding

Come, spook,
like a sleep-walking child down the hall,
fevered and naked of chest.

Stagger into my room and fall on my bed,
feet tangled in a swirl of sheets and edge,
trapping you to the mattress and fidgety unrest.

Come like an animal in lieu of a storm,
slinking to the calm confidence of your master,
sniffing for hurricanes and cowardice.

If I stir to find your hot arms webbing the pillow next to mine,
your hair a wild, sweaty mess of rope and silk,
and your mouth a pouting, soft flower
of sleeping innocence and heat,

I will lie awake with you, touching the curl of your cheek,
and wait for the nightmare to quiet, wait
for your eyelids to lose their greasy oil,
for your lungs to breathe without the phlegm of fervent smog.

In the morning, leave a round depression as the only mark of shame
that your subconscious brought you to me when afraid.
Though you can laugh and torment like a large-boned bully,
holding my need like lunch money high above your head,
in your primal mind we are linked at the base.

Your brain stem merges into mine
and your childlike passions reflex to where I am,
like I am your mother,
the safe place,
or Home.