To the Muse by James Wright

To the Muse

It is all right. All they do

Is go in by dividing

One rib from another. I wouldn’t   

Lie to you. It hurts

Like nothing I know. All they do   

Is burn their way in with a wire.

It forks in and out a little like the tongue   

Of that frightened garter snake we caught   

At Cloverfield, you and me, Jenny   

So long ago.

I would lie to you

If I could.

But the only way I can get you to come up   

Out of the suckhole, the south face

Of the Powhatan pit, is to tell you   

What you know:

You come up after dark, you poise alone   

With me on the shore.   

I lead you back to this world.

Three lady doctors in Wheeling open

Their offices at night.

I don’t have to call them, they are always there.   

But they only have to put the knife once   

Under your breast.

Then they hang their contraption.

And you bear it.

It’s awkward a while. Still, it lets you   

Walk about on tiptoe if you don’t   

Jiggle the needle.

It might stab your heart, you see.

The blade hangs in your lung and the tube   

Keeps it draining.

That way they only have to stab you   

Once. Oh Jenny.

I wish to God I had made this world, this scurvy   

And disastrous place. I

Didn’t, I can’t bear it

Either, I don’t blame you, sleeping down there   

Face down in the unbelievable silk of spring,   

Muse of black sand,

Alone.

I don’t blame you, I know

The place where you lie.

I admit everything. But look at me.   

How can I live without you?

Come up to me, love,

Out of the river, or I will

Come down to you.