By Briana Kassia
Date: 2002 Sep 14
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Be Mused

Name for me your favourite colours,
she said,
Sing to me of all your well-learned lessons,
All those secrets you have heard
In the perfume of night-blooming flowers.

I did not know what to say:
She already knew
I dream in teal
And dark rose
And that dusty sandy black of old velveteen,
cut into acanthus shapes and sandwiched with golden brocade
(the romantic upholstery of Blake and Wordsworth).

I was confused
Because she knew what the flowers taught me.

And the lessons?
How can I teach her what I could only have learned from her?

She has always confused me like that.