In the iron chair, listening to water
Gurgle through the pipes in short bursts,
And open up my wrists, slitting them
With words till I hit a golden vein.
MY MUSES
Sometimes my muses desert me.
Dressed in flowing pink chiffon,
A goddess from some ancient city in Greece,
Embossed in an urn in Italy, waking up
To take a lazy stroll to Kathmandu
When she feels like it. Sometimes,
My muse is Lord Ganesh who sits
At my elbow and dictates a flow of stories
That I am unaware is going to pour
Out of me. In that sudden monsoon
Of words, I will send up a silent thank-you
To the god who chose me to be his messenger.
In the lazy afternoon, in a hot garden,
Ganesh is napping. The phone rings,
But it is not my Grecian goddess,
It is only a woman looking for a house
To rent. I will sit here for a few moments,
Trying to evoke the goddess, but in case
She's gone, I will have to sit here
