A Writer & Her Muse
You brought me here today,
beneath the flaming autumn leaves of maple trees.
You said, “The time is now.
Tell me everything.”
About your first encounter with death–
dead kittens on a wooded path,
mouths agape, bodies lifeless and stiff.
Tell me how you doubted the stories strangers told.
How you loved to wander–
a young child in the woods with her father,
searching for signs of deer and fallen antlers.
How you were raised by atheists
in a town of Christian zealots, who said Jesus died for your sins–
an inherited debt you did not understand.
Tell me how you found god
while making love
in the backseat of a Volvo.
How the color blue conjures memories
of Moroccan portals,
of Aziz’s blue eyes.
How the sun’s warmth on the nape of your neck
reminds you of lying topless on a Basque beach–
your breasts felt natural, honored–for the first time.
Tell me how you have imagined dying.
How it felt like sighing,
like holding hands with your ancestors.
How it sounded like a strong wind through the fir trees.
Tell me this is a beginning.
Tell me more. . .