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Conversations with my Muse
by
Theresa Cecilia Garcia
Over my bed the mosquito net hangs
just as I wish it to hang.
Glowing like a great rose
through mists of sunset
and thin filmy clouds,
was the red moon.
The splendour of the light
shone on the night table.
Carafe of cool water and a glass.
Cutlery clinked
beside the flowered china coffeepot.
The coffee is cold.
The container holds petulants,
"You just don't understand."
Vast array of jam, fruit , cheese,
croissants;
extra condoms in a basket.
Ash tray, cigarettes, matches
assimilated to the shadows.
Curtains,
glittering here and there
with threads of gold.
I was within call.
Small pen and ink sketches.
Adored armor shields the heart
of made up stories
that were all mine
and mine alone.
Living in a world that no one else knew of,
into which no one could enter.
You got so much girl, you say, so much.
I say
What I got?
What I got so much of?
I was not awake
he would not rouse me
but would wait silently
sitting crossed-legged
on the floor by my bed
watching me.
You got the whole world at your fingers.
You got the grass at your toes showin' you the way.
You got the night to let you rest.
As I turned my sleepy gaze on him
he would say,
Arise!
then he would vanish.
I light a cig,
squint my eyes some
at the now rising sun,
snicker a bit and say,
What good is all that
if I ain't got the heart to see it with?
And I withdrew into my imperturbable self
and left him.
ain't got nothin'
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