A Truant Muse Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

A Truant Muse



Her intricately
Woven dress
Adorned with flowers
Enigmas and
The laughter of the stars;
She left it
There, on my bed -
It burned a flourish,
Resplendent in the
Furlough of her iridescence;
I took little photographs
And loomed immense
Allegories - she used
To be inside this dress
As I pick up the beads,
Silken things, the salt
Of her skin, the hair
Protruding at the back
Of her neck, the vigor
Of her hands and the
Poetry of her motions,
Gestures, peccadilloes
And night woes.

To think of the woman
Inside the dress,
Behind the transatlanticism
Fired my bones and
Lionized my heart -
But then, here in
Her truancy - my only
Truant muse - it's
Just a dress. Empty,
Chagrined, soliloquized.
Its visage left
Glacial vestiges,
Fired my heart so as
To reduce me into
Nights of howling ashes
And wine-drunk tears -
I am alone, and
Her dress is the only
Thing I have in this
Vale where I used to
Hold her, and kiss her
Underneath the infinite sky.

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