The Consenting Muse

Art by Leonor Fini

The door splinters.

The wood planks sail on the horizon.

The open sky calls.

The rain tremors and falls.

Body. Breath.

Sensation. Consciousness.

Crimson petals pressed to white paper.

The fortitude to know, and to go.

Leaf. Bark. Root.

The autumn brambles, left unattended.

A harvesting of love and joy.

A gathering of stone and bone.

The tender flow of words . . . unhurried.

It’s an old story . . . the calm that comes with

Knowing . . . and going.

There is no nip inside that air.

There is no ebb inside that flow.

I talk to you in a dream.

But . . . pardon the intrusion.

I was saying . . .

May I ask . . .

To trust without shadow,

What does it take?

The heavens are boundless.

There is a use for every darkness.

Intuition. Imagination. Invention.

Sulfur and Cinnabar

Art by Gianni de Conno

Maybe it will always be

This way:

The cavernous howl of agitation

in the ribs,

The harried pull of magnetism

in the core,

The clashing knuckles—

white with desire,

The disordered breathing—

haunted by time.

How do we do it?

We stare unblinkingly anticipation

steeps beneath our skin

and betray nothing.

We tread the floors of want

to undress or not to undress

without twisting our ankles.

We do not move

our lips are swollen with hunger

to the persistent heartbeat of the walls.

An owl hoots at the periphery of

the moon-washed window.

We leave the light on—

the door open.

How do we do it?

We don’t touch a thing.

We scald.

Distillation, The Fourth

Self-Portrait, Nevine Sultan

Click to read the first, second, and third “Distillation” poems.

* * * * * * * * *

I see you, My Ghost,

after an immeasurable duration of separation.

And though the ‘immeasurable’ is relative,

my first thought is, God, you look so old.

I know this thought should be followed by,

I wonder if you think the same of me.

But, I do not have that thought.

Instead, I think how reverent it is to

age from the lashes and strokes of life.

I think how immaculate are the creases that

cut the edges of our lips and

slice the corners of our eyes.

I think how eloquent are the words

we speak when the spirit wisens,

and surges, like a ghost—

Like you, My Ghost,

surge—

inside of me.

In Secret

Art by Gianni de Conno

The last time we met,

You brought me your dream—

A life wish thrust into the

Vortex of Finitude.

And while you spoke, you flamed,

Violet tongues billowing

Through glassless windows,

Sparking their alchemy sky-high.

No longer were your words

Superficial or intellectualized.

No longer was your voice

Timid or unheard.

From your lips shone

Constellations of stars.

From your eyes keened

Recrudescent echoes.

The well of impotence runs dry,

I said.

You said,

Ah, yes! That’s so.

We glared at the vivid blue of

The air encaving You and Me.

We weighed our words

As if they were wisdoms of old.

We scattered the ghosts:

Ashes to blaze!

Dust to gold!