Portside

Not a Muse

By Louise Robertson

I have dated a few musicians

and exactly two poets. They

have all the lip and spit and finger

you might expect from these people.

They have muscle in their tongue, have

practiced the languages of eye

and breath.

Whenever they write about me,

they somehow get my name to rhyme

with "too late" or "fun in bed,

but moody." Fair enough. Because I am in fact

often exercising my poetic ligaments to craft

a piece about them and their

body with the intent of getting

the tone of their sinew

and the slope of their intellectual jaw

just right.

Here is my ode to a 20 year old

who couldn't look me in the eye. Here

is what middle age looks like with its paunch

and brow and fist. Here is how I say

their names and rhyme them with

"never around" and "likes it when I don't

move." I have dedicated

poems to specific erections, their

tight, their curve or straight, their

earnest pose. Or not so earnest. Not

so tight. Do I really have to tell

you that by erection I mean something else?

So don't write songs which catch my

weak chin and need of solitude. Or don't write

them as if I am unaware of my height,

my sweat, my curl up and sleep. I am

sick of hearing you

count the many ways I can't be loved.

Louise Robertson has earned degrees (BA Oberlin, MFA George Mason University), poetry publications (Pudding Magazine, Crack the Spine, Borderline – among others) and poetry awards (Mary Roberts Rinehart, Columbus Arts Festival Poetry Competition – among others). Brick Cave Media recently published her full-length book, The Naming Of (December 2015). She is active as a poet and organizer in her local Columbus, Ohio poetry scene. Also, someone once said about Robertson that, underneath it all, she is kind.