Her Name is Ascending
My muse is winged. At first, I mistook her for an angel. She hovered above my bed when I was five. She told me my grandmother died. She told me that I was alive; she told me the dark was nothing to be afraid of; she told me that the dark was my friend. My muse reminds me to live when I forget or try to give up. My muse stops me in the middle of street and shows me a flock of pigeons swirling like fish. She shows me the shadow of the peregrine as it soars through the shadow of me. My muse tells me I can fly like that. My muse tells me I was born with wings. My muse insists I listen to the great horned owl asking the night for love before I go to bed. My muse forms my hand into the cup that scoops up the stunned mourning dove from the sidewalk and places it among the impatiens. My muse reminds me of the pulse in my throat fluttering like a moth; my muse reminds me how thin the skin of my wrist is. When I look into the mirror, I see my muse rolling over and through me, wave after grey wave. When I stand still in autum, I feel her pulling me, lifting my arms to the wind, promising that I am hollow-boned, that I have a soul, that I will rise. Up, she whispers. Up.