by Olga Dugan

The Muse
         (for Tasha)

weeks after hurricane Irma’s winnowing
and St. Martin’s becoming the cruelest
of threshing floors, she felt like grain
fallen to a greedy ground, the outer
shell of herself hefted off by the slightest
whim of wind, and yet the tree still
planted by living waters, the teacher
tells tv news a story of epiphany
in colors of earth and sky and grace

she collects children from their play
in ruin’s hush stirring puddles under
rainbows arcing broken school steps—
they will splash, splatter, smooth
brazen hues of fuchsia, ocher, orange,
mustard, red to spring up temporary
spaces for living, learning, and worship

one of her artists, whose canvas is a tent
for storing school supplies, echoes
a zephyr of voice so familiar it pangs
Miss, I paint mango leaves, he lets her see
proud of what his fingers have made
a leaf purpling to fine wine, some green
around a brown-line tree, her heart
takes in his passionfruit and melon
giraffe, head held high in low silver
spears of stratus, hooves on a coconut
curve of earth—images conjuring
her son another storm stole years earlier
and forever—my son liked animals
she tells her young muse

beginning her story’s end, she thinks
of her child up there where the artist
has painted an apricot sun on blue heaven
skies . . . late afternoon, she steers the boy
away from his canvas, away from her
we will tell ta maman of your good work
she says, cradling his painted fingers
so at least for the length of their trek
to his home, she adds with thanks
her hand was not empty

Photo by Sandip Kalal on Unsplash