“Leaving so soon love,” I ask as
I watch his muscles flex, seeing
the graceful dance of youth, as he
gazes on me—fully in bloom.
His finger slides down my neck, down
to the hollow between my breasts.
“Yes,” he answers. “I can’t lie here
all day making mad passionate
love. I have other poets, you
know.” He smiles, lingers, and touches
my rounded stomach. Soon, soon, I
know, the words will come, pouring from
my fingers onto the blank page.
I watch him close the wooden door . . .
secure . . . knowing that soon I will
give breath to ideas, thoughts, and
poems—knowing that we, muse and poet,
have fertilized the well of dreams.
Cynthia E Bagley
Published in Poetry Monthly, Issue 75, June 2002