These white, white women.

Coiffed and shroud-draped, antiquely spaced

in some dusty dance on the flank

of a cold sarcophagus.

Whose blood would spill onto pristine page

for the milky affection of their bland gaze?

Erato, what do you know of fire-

harping away there on your lyre?

My fierce love burns still through my fingers

scrabbling for luminosity

at these feeble keys

unlit by the beam of his full eyes.

There’s drought in my mouth

for a honey tongue and I gasp to drink

the perfection of that body

which starts flames in mine.

I want to fix his essence here;

but I cannot catch light.

~Polly Oliver (2017)

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5 thoughts on “Muse

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