by t. zoEy benally
I cannot write because my muse no longer listens to me.
I feel her back--smooth, oily shale
I am shunned, and words are repelled
by the force field that she has installed around my brain
by the iron walls she has welded around my heart.
I am unloved, and have been relegated to a hell
of perpetual false starts.
And each time I jump the gun
Bound out starting gates
I am tazered.
Portions of poems stick in my throat
Uncried tears, unacknowledged sobs
Partially masticated truth
and never digested.
I am left malnourished with scurvy
Dehydrated and infested with worms
And my poems emerge in tatters
because she has left me only
boll-weevil infested elbow macaroni
and contaminated muddy water
She is like a silent cat - my former muse.
Sleek refusal to reveal my transgressions.
She kneads my flesh with freshly peeled claws,
Purrs, and sheds silver fur on my black sweater and face.