The Muse
by Kristen Lynn Albanese
Visual Tasting by Myss Miranda
The Raven, Grand Canyon, 2009
I sat with Poe,
On a red Victorian style couch
Sinking into the heavily used cushion
In a dark room,
With tall, wood-paneled walls,
And a gray stone fireplace--
The orange flames,
Leaping and screaming in their space.
And we sat,
In silence,
Waiting.
Afraid to get too comfortable
In fear that the moment would pass.
He put his cold, cryptic fingers
On my bare shoulder.
Bony, brittle, tight-skinned,
Fingers that had given flight to the Raven,
Committed the Murders in the Rue Morge.
They had no pulse,
But they made me aware of mine,
And finally,
I took a breath.
I turned to him;
His eyes were bright and black.
My face drew nearer to his,
As if some magnetic force,
Were pulling my eyes to explore,
The secrets of his.
And he whispered:
“The arm that you feel around you,
When you think you’re sleeping alone,
That’s me.”
And as that last word floated from his thin,
Blue lips,
A quick breeze came through the room,
Sending a chill through my body,
Making each hair stand up,
And upon it’s exit,
It stole Poe,
Then the fire.
And I was left,
Sinking into the couch,
In a room with tall wood-paneled walls,
Where I could see nothing,
With those words,
Left burning in my mind
Leaping and screaming like flames.
Share
