Fifty-six. On viewing things from the outside, again.

The light is different now
than it was in February.
You say this is obvious
but I shifted seamlessly
through the seasons
with mint in my mouth.

You don't let anything happen.

Make the body become
a map. Make the body
become an alter.

So I'm not your muse.
I don't dip your wings in gold
or coat your throat with honey.
I don't make you want to write
symphonies, or cause birds
to fly out of your ears.
I see the way you look at girls
who have figured out what to do
with their voices in the middle
of crowded rooms. And that's
not me. We spend so much time saying,
This is not about you.

Meanwhile, an old lover
sends me postcards
from a tropical island,
and all of the wrong people
are handing me confessions and trying
to write me into their stories.
When do I get to be
part of yours?