after blossoming always asks this one
question: Who worships me? I say, Poets.
We adore each sight of you. Stand alone
longing in your absence, empty cruets
stained with loss. She laughs. (Have you ever heard
her?) Stares with her shadow eyes narrowing
like melting mountains. Your glittering words
flatter and fade, she sighs. Such harrowing
response from you, dear goddess, I complain,
wounds our tender souls—we who you inspire
to record lines clearly not our own—pains
us to near madness. Her face turns to fire.
I see my chance: Who’s that man within you?
She: You wish it were you. I: Yes, I do.
Roger Armbrust
July 14, 2010
