Linda Stevenson #35 September 6 Muse

Muse

The play of muse and self

when you hardly grasp

the moment; it’s there, gone.

The entering bell rings

and then you are light-yeared “other”

different, embittered,

medieval, european,

flying around old stonework

like a witch or a nun on a mission.

Is this the crimson flash

you wrote of, was it blood

after all, was it gall, the ultimate

unforgiving symptom?

or was it an astounding

rosy fabric, woven to oppose

the black habit you wear, the black

robe that flaps and flails

around you, even now?