She whispers in my ear
until she is my ear.
It’s a form of torture,
being taken over
by an outside force,
whether I will or no.
She goads me to grab
the grist of my life
like a gun, and shoot.
of order is useless—
she rides me, turns
my head in the street.
It’s she who decides
what to record, how
to decipher the code
of each body.
She uses the bronze
for her own ends—
the muscles ripple
for the pleasure
of her hands.
The Sculptor and His Muse (cast bronze, 1895)*
by Auguste Rodin (1840–1917), French sculptor and photographer
is the author of ten poetry books, most recently a collection of cherita, haiku,
senryu, and tanka entitled The Missing Peace (Velvet Dusk Publishing, 2021).
She co-edited the anthology A Bird Black As the Sun: California Poets on Crows
& Ravens (Green Poet Press). Her poems have appeared in numerous journals,
including Spillway, Crab Creek Review, Apercus, Askew, San Pedro River Review,
Mojave River Review, The Coil, and Split Rock Review, among others.
Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. She lives
in the Mojave Desert near Joshua Tree National Park.
Author’s website: www.cynthiaandersonpoet.com