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123 MY MUSE As a rule, the power of absolutely falling in love soon vanishes . . . because the woman feels embarrassed by the spell she exercises over her poet-lover and repudiates it . . . —Robert Graves, The White Goddess “Why don’t you just write a poem, right now?” she says. ‘Western wind, when wilt thou blow . . .’ why don’t you write a poem like that, like that ‘Anonymous’? Something inspirational.” “Talk about muses,” I sulk, “Yeats’ wife was visited in her dreams by angels saying, ‘We have come to bring you images for your husband’s poetry.’” “Yeah? So what?” she says. “It’s out of style. I already do too much for you.” Odalisque in a wicker chair, book open on her lap, dry Chardonnay at her side, hand on a dozing, whiskered Sphinx. “You need a muse,” she says, “someone beautiful, mysterious, some long-lost love, fragile, a dancer perhaps. Look at me . . .” “Yeah?” I say, refilling her glass, “You hear me complaining? You’re zaftig.” “Zaftig?” “Firm, earthy, juicy, too,” I say. v v v 124 “Juicy plum,” I say, in bed, left hand over her head, “rose petals,” I say, right arm around her. “Silver drop earrings,” I murmur, ordering out for gifts. “Aubergine scarf, gray cashmere cardigan.” I do this in my sleep. Go shopping in my sleep. “Oh, yeah, and a case of Chardonnay.” Wake to the scent of apple blossoms, decades in the glow of rose light. v v v “Wake,” she whispers. I tell her my dream. We kiss. Poppy Express. Racy Red. Red Coral. Star Red. Red red. “Enough. That’s enough,” she says. ...

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