What the Muses Leave Behind

   “We all have interiors that want to be seen.” Fibber McGee’s Closet, you don’t want to open it too fast.  My interior is not a Fibber McGee Closet…go ahead, take your time. Peek in slowly, I miss details about my life at first glance too.  You can get lost in there, I get lost in here.  Pockets, reticulations, like a fox makes, retracing her steps so that none can follow.  Sorry grandchildren, my path might seem to lead you down a blind alley, just keep going. I’ve always loved walking in the dark, feeling my way.  My interior self sorted instead of stacked.  Think of a wall of conglomerate strata, neatly tucked into place. Think of lots of shelves, bottle lined, blue, green, brown glassed. Of secret rooms, burrows and warrens, fur lined and wormy. Think of revolving doors, a little sticky but with a push you are in. Of  labyrinths on islands for the really sordid moments, the ones that you truly want ...

This city has seven rings, bad air and a piece of my jewelry. That earring of lapis and quartz, now closer to home Than ever it was in Appalachia. Here's a city that wheels the roads like fish schools with frightening appetite. Platters of Peking Duck warn me as I devour its crispy delicious skin. It’s a city of red doors, masked faces and a piece of my incisor. Now this tongue, worried and raw, craves sweet longan fruit and milk tea. I am another door, chipped but open. This city demands guts for steaming hot pots and morning courage. My slumber has climbed aboard Coriolus currents, I wake more dream than dreamer, more breath than blood. This city expects backbone, an open wallet, and a warm coat. Turtle dragons embody the emperor. All lean into their work. Harmony, the hardest task master, reigns from the inside out. Here is a city with three feet, its silent anarchy in black leather boots. A young foot reaches for tomorrow, the old one gathe...