Muse (5.17)

She comes to the doors that are ajar – chance
always plays a part in vision.
I’ve propped mine open with a book.
Just inside, I’m standing, humming
to be sure she knows I’ve got a voice. Perhaps
she’ll follow in the leaves or drifts; I’ll be there,
humming, waiting on one miracle after the next.

If she comes only to shut me up, I will close
and lock the door behind her. She’ll likely go limp
and slip like a ghost, like an empty envelope,
back under the door. I will hum louder.
I will open every window in the house
so that whatever I am doing – stacking clean plates,
reading, seeing a spider out, sealing bills – she will hear

only my dull melodies up and down the street. I will hum,
“You have failed. I am still humming. I am still
humming.” I will force her to return to talk me down
from the roof where I will be holding onto the weathervane,
swinging out over the neighborhood, like thunder,
like an eclipse of the sparrows. I will leave the door
and all the windows open. I’ll pour her tea, humming.

She won’t be taken, she will say.
I’ll point to the open door.
She will sit down at the piano,
appreciating that the only way to hear music againis to teach me.