Before Winter turned her hair white
the machinations of hormones
belied supple exposure
her breasts wrapped away from disease
fearful of ailing she became forgetful of
the intensity that was touch
The last muse
still able to climb over country gate
with the loose limbed wonder that is youth
worked in the sun without blemish
bent to her task, free of ache or hurt
her hair as full as words, a younger girl would utter
watching from behind the shutters
a cat without pounce
The last muse
written in poems only
never to be enjoyed with braille of finger tip
as if some document existed somewhere
denying passion after ovaries dry
a silly double-standard the old her
would have decried
shouted to her red-tented sisters
lest they forgot to listen
rent her breast like a vixen
streaking across snow
a blur of red without apology
she asked her in when it got cold
and watched unrepentant as she removed her wet clothes
by the fire, straight limbed and smiling
as if she had just been waiting
courage, a thing of humor
not yet abated
There’s so much to dissect throughout this poem, but my favorite lines are as follows:
“a blur of red without apology
she asked her in when it got cold
and watched unrepentant as she removed her wet clothes
by the fire, straight limbed and smiling
as if she had just been waiting
courage, a thing of humor
not yet abated”
and it ends perfectly. Very nice, Candice.
I’m not sure why this had made me cry but I have huge fat tears streaming down my face and I’m hiccuping like I the air has completely left my body. This is beautiful.
There are spirits who may not enter uninvited.
Yes, some are the dark ones, vampires and demons,
But also the bright ones, angels and muses.
And a muse is still a muse
Even when the poetry is not in ink
But finger traced on waiting skin
With equal wonder.
Empathetic as always
Me and my muse captured💜!