Two Run-ins with the Muse, poems by Elizabeth Simson

Tuesday afternoon in Kraków’s Rynek Główny
you nearly knocked me over
while I was trying to perfect my sketch
of Adam Mickiewicz (his nose was crooked).
Amidst the clamor of schoolchildren
and threat of pigeon dreck I was
a bit preoccupied. Then you appeared.
You were wearing a ridiculous
light blue sweater four sizes too big
shoved up over your elbows.
The sun was kissing your hair.
We talked about nothing,
but I laughed harder
than I had for years.
Later I wished for a snapshot, a lock of hair,
anything to show others
the way you made me feel.
Some places you visit
you walk home from slowly,
not because of regret,
but because of happiness.

II.

Heart of fire's core, unflappable
you breeze by, ashes and soot
on your fingers, the wide weave of
wisk broom straw sweeping behind you.
You clean up well, leave nothing to
chance. I wonder how that feels,
invulnerability, goddess gaining
stature, the ability to burn
without singing, a flamethrower
slung on each hip like a gunman,
clink of metal when you walk from the
click-click-tap of your stilettos.
Kottravai, Kali, just rough drafts.
You're the real thing, cruel dragon
curled under the mountain. Show me
your ruby throat, I'll press tears
into your palm and be faithful.
Oh, how faithful I will be,
behind the smoke, my upward glances.