Muse

I write poems about women I have never known

And they ask me,

Who is this muse of yours?

What woman sighs so deeply

And loves so hard

That your words are dripping with the thought of her?

And I answer back,

As every cell in my body is another sister,

She is every one,

She is every woman.

I know her only in my dreams.

In the deep channels made of blankets in my bed,

Between the beats of my heart and the hairs of my head,

But I love her with the pain in my chest

And the tears in my eyes.

I love her with empty arms

And my shaking hands.

I write sweet sonnets

And worship the path

Of the woman of the world.

This woman is divine

And my greatest fear

Is I will never know her.

But I do.

And they ask me who is this muse of yours?