Muse

She has silver, sable hair 
that waves like ink smeared 
on the handside that slides 
the paper. She has hands 
that understand what makes 
a mark last. And she let me 
taste something I had never 
even hungered for before.

When she invited me to kiss her, 
I could not believe that I deserved it. 
When she came to me unbidden, 
she brought with her beauty, 
the other face of pain, 
a heavy little stone 
that I’d been scared
to hold onto for myself.

She whispered through her pores
that it’s ok, there is no unbearable pain. 
I can take the gifts she brings 
and drink them deep, and know
to drink is worthy work, 
and not a vanity of hands.