The rest of my muse

My muse lies restlessly beside me:
his legs wrap my thighs, my belly, my hips.
Even my ribs are occasionally encased
in his flexible weightless embrace.

My muse sleeps soundly behind me:
rhythmically tickling my spine
with his breath – his lips so close
they caress my back
in a precious, inadvertent kiss.

My muse, he turns gently behind me:
our backs now touching -
two butterfly wings at rest.
He cannot know what bliss this brings,
this unselfconscious presence.

My muse, unconscious of how lovely
he looks in the moonlight,
in soft, shifting shadows,
in an afternoon glow -
slumbers peacefully beneath my covers.

My muse is a beautiful boy,
naive to the depth of this beauty.
He is not handsome like men
who often bear pride with
self-knowledgeable looks.

No, although a man in years,
my muse is oblivious to his own charms:
like a child absorbed in his play,
he is what he is…

My muse is awake
and would like to know why
I stare so long and so often.

Effective words elude me in this moment,
and I can only smile
and apologize.



Donia Lilly
10 March 2005