Twice upon a time

I was a muse,

which let me tell you,

is a much better circumstance and label

than the coveted “wife” or “girlfriend.”

Remembering the days

where we sat in the tiny basement kitchen

probably after a lunchbreak rendezvous

and created things

on canvas, on paper, with symbols, with words,

listening to Tom Waits

letting God move through

his brush, my pen.

A bottomless fountain.

Our fountain of youth.

I’ve also sat across a date at Chilis

with nothing to talk about,

the mortgage and childcare on my mind,

thinking there must fucking be more

to this:

nights in the bar

watching sports

coexisting along side one another

without connecting.

worrying about the words

instead of letting them roll of our tongues

asking forgiveness

over and over and over,

the way muses do.

Five times, my husband bought me flowers.

It was customary to whatever holiday

Hallmark and America told the husbands

this must be done.

For five straight days,

my painter made me into a flower,

putting colors and stamen

all over my body

as the tides led the breezes

into our Big Sur motel room,

where we talked and laughed

and cried for days.

I smiled the other day to see

his wife and precious newborn


so happy to have been the muse,

nothing else

nothing more.



Waning Crescent

I walked out on the lawn,

into the darkness.

He was the moon,


I struggled to remember

even his face

as he turned away

from us.

That was so long ago.

Sitting in silence,

serenaded by the crickets

hidden in the iceplant,

I smiled to think there is always a new moon.

But only after

the crescent finally