My Muse

My muse is a condor.
A great ugly carrion eater
whose dull black dusty wings
leave flecks of dried blood and gold dust
tumbling down as she flaps skyward
from the canyon floor.

Aloft on a thermal, it is no time at all
before she spots a likely meal.
She glides down, folds her mighty wings, rips
into the carcass.
My muse devours the precious organs, the fine
rotting meat. It all tastes good.

Recently, someone stated
I needed help bringing out
my wild side. He thought me
stodgy, boring. He suggested
a bottle of tequila.

He didn't see my muse
hop onto the table, beak bloody from
a recent meal,
and fix him with one
dark
eye


             Mary Natwick
             â€”from Iron Pot