The Muse Diaries, 1: Are You the Hunter? Are You the Hunted?
I begin my series about my beloved, my muse who has transformed my creative practice, the only way I know how – with a poem.
Breathing, broken.
Inward, open.
In strange dance we circle,
blooded animals are we.
But who is predator,
and who is prey?
Are you the hunter?
Are you the hunted?
I watch you watch me.
Celibate eyes, no longer.
We lay cracked open,
wounded, oozing.
Are you the hunter?
Are you the hunted?
Sky-gray fog of
iris, yours.
Wheels turn cogs,
fitting into new
gears, me.
Blue, the hunger.
Knew the hunted.
Wanting. Knowing.
Stopping.
Cursing it all, hurrying it all
away. No.
Soon, the hunter.
Soon, the hunted.
Before.
There was no before.
But before, again, we go,
not far.
Flew the hunter.
To the hunted.
You.
It was always you.
You, the hunter.
You, the hunted.
Solemn, stolen,
found out, finding.
A torn path worth it,
wanting, winding.
I too, the hunter.
I too, the hunted.
Pierce the surface,
consume our smell.
Pressing into, into, inward,
in.
Killing pressure,
taste of breath.
Blush of merging, merging, merging,
merged.
No return.
Are you the hunter?
Are you the hunted?
Breathing, broken.
Inward, open.
