Write Something

Joan Mazza

I tell myself
every morning. Don’t think
too much. Don’t expect
to make sense. Start with
an image or a phrase
that’s bumping your forehead.
Grab it by the smallest
thread and pull gently.
Keep tugging as it unravels
into wavy curls in a heap
at your feet. Sort colors later.
Snip or knit them
in a few months.

Just show up, the muse says.
And, I told you so.

My muse doesn’t sweet talk,
won’t make deals, refuses
to say my words are eloquent.
She never promises prizes.
Rework that; it’s a mess.
At least you have
something to revise.


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