"Spiral Staircase" by Paul Wright

Moon 

Descending 

a Staircase

“I am my own muse,

the subject I know best.” 

               ~Frida Kahlo

Eventually

all we’ve

learned will

have to

be forgotten.

Even you have

grown weary of 

passing the time

suspended in a sky 

of anonymous stars.

Don’t you fear appearing

hopelessly antediluvian?

You are

a paradox; 

an all-seeing pupil

as cloudy

as a cataract.

You could be

mistaken for

a balding judge

for want of

a powdered wig, 

when in fact

you make a

perfect muse.

In two weeks

you will be 

wall-eyed.

Your nightly progress

tracking our

whereabouts by

a homing device

buried within

every heart,

registering quakes

thump by thump

by thump.

Now

at last you

descend

from the safety 

of your vast ceiling

to perch in

the branches

of a yew tree;

silver oval owl

abandoning

the sky

for lesser climbs,

as if you knew 

Van Gogh

was right: 

starlight

spirals downward

toward what's lowly.

So why not 

replenish

yourself by

lying low?

You, who’ve

never needed

to take me 

(just another

spoke 

in your

revolving hub),

personally

have traveled

down

to see me

as I am.

My casual

nonchalance

hardly proving

us unrelated,

you will find 

us both

on a journey

towards

wholeness.

Seeing is 

believing you are

not too faraway

to follow 

me home,

let alone

hover over

every phase

of life,

even when 

you go

missing

you manage 

to go on

pulling the tides

toward 

your cheek

with a lover’s

abandon.

Thank heavens

you haven't 

any smile

because your

mouth could

never justify

curling upward

over so much

sorrow.

If nature

is ironic,

we have

no answers.

So why 

do I

still want to 

climb closer 

to your 

pale face

and scrawl

my name

on the

blameless

surface

of your

indifference?

In the end,

I may discover

it was

your distance

that kept

us close

all along.

That way

you could 

be sure

I would never

outgrow you.

March 22nd, 2021