Muse

　　by Meena Alexander

　　 I was young when you came to me.

　　 Each thing rings its turn，

　　 you sang in my ear， a slip of a thing

　　 dressed like a convent girl

　　 white socks， shoes，

　　 dark blue pinafore， white blouse.

　　 A pencil box in hand： girl， book， tree

　　 those were the words you gave me.

　　 Girl was penne， hair drawn back，

　　 gleaming on the scalp，

　　 the self in a mirror in a rosewood room

　　 the sky at monsoon time， pearl slits

　　 In cloud cover， a jagged music pours：

　　 gash of sense， raw covenant

　　 clasped still in a gold bound book，

　　 pusthakam pages parted，

　　 ink rubbed with mist，

　　 a bird might have dreamt its shadow there

　　 spreading fire in a tree maram.

　　 You murmured the word， sliding it on your tongue，

　　 trying to get how a girl could turn

　　 into a molten thing and not burn.

　　 Centuries later worn out from travel

　　 I rest under a tree.

　　 You come to me

　　 a bird shedding gold feathers，

　　 each one a quill scraping my tympanum.

　　 You set a book to my ribs.

　　 Night after night I unclasp it

　　 at the mirror's edge

　　 alphabets flicker and soar.

　　 Write in the light

　　 of all the languages

　　 you know the earth contains，

　　 you murmur in my ear.

　　 This is pure transport