The Muse at West 11th Street

"You can fuck me, but you can't marry me,"
My Muse said, lowering herself into a chair and lighting a cigarette
"And I'd even rather you didn't fuck me tonight."
I could tell that
Because she'd incarnated herself in such sagging, weary flesh
That I knew she wanted me to know she felt put upon --
Deprived of her youth and attractiveness,
Given me the best years of her life, and for what?

Not a very engaging sight,
This gracelessly aging Grace,
But she obviously wasn't going to go away.
I hung up her coat in the closet and sat down again.
The tinny sound of the TV bounced off the walls.
She took a long drag.
Hitched a laddered stocking
Looked toward the open window,
But cocked a cool grey eye at me from time to time.

I couldn't help remembering then
The nights that she'd come to me with her own hunger
Painted fresh on her lips
Crushed me between her thighs
Choked me with honey
Blackberries
Myrrh
And tears,
Forcing them down my throat until every pore bled sweetness.
Her nails bit hard into my arms, back, neck
My breasts swelled with bruises when
Finished, she lay back, laughed
And lit up.

But I couldn't tell her that.
Not tonight.
Instead, I got up and brought her a glass of wine and an ashtray, saying,

"What made you think I wanted to marry you?"
I felt like a man.