Night Wakings

I suppose having a muse would be helpful,
and to be honest,
I had always wanted one.
Bereft of that, I assumed I wasn’t a true artist,
for true artists have muses.
Encounters, fitful and raw,
would always yield results
causing things to flow forth
in abundance.
But I am a simple woman.
A mother. A wife.
A high school English teacher 
who wears her hair always up and tight.
Where would a muse fit in?
Yet, like the true geniuses
of palette, paint, or rhyme,
I, too, hear cries of longing in the night
of a desire for flesh and warmth.
Lust, however, is not their maker
and my muse, not my lover.
Still these encounters produce the same effect
and things flow forth,
for sleeplessness can make us frail or brave.
Like Lippi and Buti
we are secretive and drawn, 
trying not to be heard,
unable to explain or control this need
that reaches back to creation
and is the source of life.
But when a lifetime has been spent 
stripping away the carnal things
and pushing down on the head of the hungry beast 
that sits in the belly of us all,
what else can one expect? 
What other kind of muse could one possibly receive?