I find it a bit odd admitting to having an idea of who my muse is; it’s a bit like saving a seat for your invisible friend on the train. But, for all that and without further delay, allow me to introduce “My Muse”.
(with apologies to Kaety Moon and her elegant poem ‘The Reluctant Muses’)
My muse wears boots to bed
and wakes on a cold noon;
complains; he’s overworked and weary.
He never checks on me but says
I call hourly, intrusively; too soon.
Then, he is gender’s opposite;
holds my shadow’s light,
has fingerprints that map my days.
With me, in town, those hands steal eyeliner;
make black word weapons my sight.
His hand is warm as I fall,
and he laughs at pain.
I expect nothing, often, and find generosity.
He cuts open petals to see their flesh,
cries from the weight of the rain.
My muse; you use me.
Alone, I am a castle;
hollow, dark and waiting for war.
By these walls you grow daisies with thorns,
brew sweet wine in broken cups
and remain my safe path in battle.
Kaety’s poem, and her other work can be found here: http://kaetymoon.com/