Muse
by Mitzi Cross
for W. J.
November
was dry,
leaf crackling. The air
on Vine street was sharp
as glass. I heard car doors
shut and open. I peeked out
my window like a thief.
I'd missed her forked tongue
sarcasm, her cut and dry
honesty and questions on the
existence of Karma. I welcomed
her into my home with open
limbs and a swollen heart. She sat
down in my floor, the hardwood,
freshly varnished to shine, creaking
like a rusty hinge. I smiled at her
brown eyes softened. The tension,
tight in her voice, billowed away in
white ripples of sound. Guitar
strings
reverberated, behind her, she raised
her arms, pushing her black hair,
still wet from her shower, off her
face. Her body carved to fir
against
mine, like the divine carpentry of Jesus.
She was cold in my house, her shirt,
cotton thin, the dark rim of her glasses
crowning her face. We sat up all
night
talking about the possibilities, life love
and spirit. Parts of our bodies
swollen and moist.