Muses

I

here lies Navarro: the one the Muses forgot

when molding this steep summer's day

from the sunlight on God's own hands.

II

i was trapped by the shadows of the trees in the walkway.

the mulberry bushes were my shackles which bound me

to the Divine's tampered will—swiftly they leapt

and softly they sang around my tired restrained body;

i became their playthings as they kept this poet's hand from scribbling upon scrolls with a quill or charcoal

or even his own unholy blood. i was left there to consider

my trespasses.

III

they left me out in the street while they bathed in the Tiber:

they saw their lover Virgil and lied with him

beneath a pomegranate tree—he licked his lips

and reached up, plucked a morsel for his wetting mouth.

nine little morsels met him there and licked their lips

of his warm juices and he called to me,

asking me if there was no greater pleasure

than agony.

IV

they returned their robes over their shoulders,

covering their pale supple breasts and hearty thighs

as Virgil lay sleeping. they returned to me and moved their hands

through the air near my skin: temptation is my penance, it seems:

the art of deprivation while the poet stands, wanting to touch,

to feel, to kiss them. i pursed my lips but the shortest one

waved her finger at me, told me that this was supposed to be

agony: no lips would be involved.

V

hours passed: seemingly days

and the girls kept dancing, waving their hands about me,

licking their lips and rubbing their boney hands

over their cavernous curves. every time the crow cawed

they would return to the tree, wake the sleeping Virgil

and lie with him again. he would look at me chained by branches

to laugh at my misery. i wept with every moan

and cringed with every touch. whenever they would kiss

the Poet’s lips, they would look at me and smile.

VI

i now lie asleep on the sidewalk, the sun beaming down

warming my skin and opening my eyes

from the brightness. i rolled over, felt my hands move freely

and my legs squirm. i leapt up, felt my feet fall firmly on the ground;

i ran and ran and ran until i stumbled upon the church.

VII

outside St. Thomas i sat and lit my cigarette.

the wine had ventured from my blood and my head sit surreally

upon my shoulders. the bells rang above me

and mothers led their children in, hiding their eyes

from my smoke and tired hands. i looked down upon my wrists

and saw no marks: no signs of my shackle vines,

no pomegranate trees in sight. i looked up and around,

heard the arhythmic church bell’s ring

and waited for the families to rush inside. i drove my cigarette into the step

and began to write on the stone with the decaying ashes:

VIII

here lies Navarro: the one the Muses forgot

when molding this steep summer's day

from the sunlight on God's own hands.