Con(temporary) Muse, by Tonya Eberhard
Black bile simmering in a black caldron—
acid burning in the stomach,
a fire to the heart. Like the touch of one
Witches brew, she knew
of other charms besides kissing
frog to prince,
boy to man.
Mother witch, creator of muses,
making morning grow dark, darker than
black boughs snaking across the sky.
Sweeten the pot.
she pointed with a crooked finger.
the temporary muse. At the stomach, the heart.
A churning, a groaning from the throat
spitting black bile, creating a muse made from the self.
Of mystical powers, no.
A ghost of flesh and bone,
heart of false valor,
tongue of pure stone.
Witches brew, she knew flame to
heart makes it beat faster.
Heart palpitations are
She will love him.
She loves him.
She does say, I do.
Tonya Eberhard recently graduated from the University of Missouri. She currently lives in Minnesota. Her work has appeared in Algebra of Owls, The Commonline Journal, Dirty Chai, Yellow Chair Review, Open Minds Quarterly, and many others.