Muses must be heard. That is the thing; once you wake them up, they sing & sing & sing

    This, you see, is a problem. 

            Because I’ve got work to do.

Can’t be a muse and a poet, and advocate, win the bread, stead the home, fort the hold, AND sustain lives,

                            not well i can’t, not all

Every night

    you awaken me

At this ungodly hour so full of god

Masses dream; sleep; shut down

            The world becomes clear, open, wide open for you

                                                                                                to reach for me

Sometimes singing song

Sometimes writing words

                                 for poetry flows in your veins like pure blood

Soft suggestions made very, very softly, do make me smile

I can hear them, after a while

 

For finally i found your goodbye letter

Lying on it’s side like that, flat on the mantelpiece

At long last, you explained you would not walk through this door with me yet I’m not alone

    Took me a long long time to decipher the handwriting, 

Lying flat over a hot lonely fireplace all those nights

If only i could have told you how i started out on this dangerous journey so long ago?

 

Life without you is lightless; there is no light

That is the night.

Night is :    knowing you breathe

                            yet it is not now softly blowing on my cheek upon our shared pillow

Night is:    not knowing if you know my true name

                             tried to tell you but i was too slow

Night is:    saving up so many crucial little things to tell you

                             whispering them only to the sliver of moon

Night covers up the existence of some

                                and lays bare others

Night blindfolds time & tune

        So waiting & patience & silence & anguish blend into very breath.

 

                    My name is Mary.