My Muse

Image by Tess Kincaid

My Muse


Out back, Edna St. Vincent Millay
hangs pillowcases to dry, fresh
as a line of sonnets, her rogue image
candid in a nightie and tramp-coat.

“Hi, Edna”, I wave. She displays
robust charm to match her savage
beauty. We chat over wet laundry.
I sound like a fool. Why do I trust her
with my tough secrets, my edged tools?

It's easy, like having another drink
when you know you’ve had enough.
She tosses words, like clothespins
in the basket, exhales slow, stamps
a cigarette in the grass with a twist
of her Pulitzer shoe.

“Your heart is true”, she winks.
“You may pass”.



Tess Kincaid
February 2010


***Whenever I pass this cute little green house, I like to imagine my muse, Edna St. Vincent Millay, living here. It's far from Steepletop, but I see her, soft in her easy chair, scribbling sonnets late at night, before the fire.

Posted over on her site Willow Manor
Listed as #1 over on Magpie Tales 52