Describe your Muse – “She”

Last night I started reading a thread on one of the forums over on Scribophile titled Describe your muse.  I haven’t stopped to sit and think about how I would answer this today … but about 10 years ago I wrote a piece titled “She” … and in my mind “She” is my muse.  I didn’t think that was the right place to post this, so … I will post it here.  🙂


I thought she had abandoned me, but then I heard a whisper, caught a scent, glimpsed from the corner of my eye a darting shadow … and I realized She hadn’t left me.  I have been neglecting her.

She

She is always with me. You can see her if you try. Look, over there. She practically lies in the chair, her body relaxed; claiming the space with a sensual casualness that simply says … she belongs.

She has a glass of lemonade in her hands. She always drinks lemonade. She says that the experience of the tart sting on the tongue, softened by just-barely-enough sugar perfectly matches the sensation of life on the soul.

I am so used to her that I hardly notice the faint scent of vanilla and cloves that lingers in the air around her. I can move through the room, through my life for weeks at a time without even glancing at her. She doesn’t seem to mind. I swear it is out of sheer impetuousness  that she will shift – casually stretching out a leg just to watch me stumble, to shake things up for me. Somehow my boring, my mundane, it sustains her. I think it is because she can hardly comprehend either concept for herself. She is never boring, and never mundane.

While I am hard at work she sits and stares out the window daydreaming of adventures passed, or future … or maybe only imagined. There is no melancholy in her far off gaze; only, maybe, a touch of yearning. I wonder at the hunger that seems to lay eternally coiled in her belly.

How can anyone be at once so settled, comfortable, easy; and also be so vivacious, high-spirited, voracious?

When the inspiration becomes too great she moves, like a lithe and stalking panther, out of her chair and into my path.

Sometimes I think that she is my phantom lover, that her hunger bubbles up and spills out of her, infecting me, leaving me full of that conflicted want and satiation. I wonder if you can see her circling me, weaving her spell like some Pagan Priestess. I wonder too if you won’t get caught somehow in the spell.

We dance, she and I, and I sweat vanilla and cloves. My kisses taste of lemonade. Perhaps, if you are lucky, you will reap the rewards of our toil. I wonder if you see her, if you know that she is there?

And when I vacuum or dust or drive to work … are you aware of her there in the corner lounging so casually and watching us? I’ll bet … now that you know, you will see her if you try; sparkling eyes, ice clinking in her lemonade, innocent lovely mirth as she shifts casual and comfortable, stretching out a leg, the subtle scent of vanilla and cloves lingering around her.

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7 thoughts on “Describe your Muse – “She”

  1. My muse:

    Sandalwood

    She sits naked on the floor,
    Caress-sized breasts hidden
    Behind the guitar she plays.
    Her hair, soft and dark,
    Falls to her pale, bare shoulders.
    Her legs are crossed beneath her;
    Small bare feet project to either side
    Of the perfect roundness of her bottom,
    Displaying the neat progression of her toes.
    She smiles at me more with her eyes
    Than with her teeth.
    My heart reaches toward her.
    It’s ten o’clock on a summer evening,
    And I have lit some Indian incense.
    The fragrant smoke rises, swirling,
    Dancing sweet arabesques to the ceiling,
    Sometimes curling in my direction,
    Beckoning, calling me from my page,
    Inviting me to join the wild dance
    Of Beauty’s celebration.
    Nostromo

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