My muse carries a machete
hacking a path
through chores and doubt
and all I have to do is follow her
like a shadow
but this is different
this energy
like a fleet of mice
roosting in my head
sending me memos
I remember it from the last time
I had a baby
a leftover productivity
after the elbows and kidneys were done
I explain it to a friend
it’s like my muse had a litter
she nods
but I can tell
she wishes
I would sit down
my eyelids
don’t listen either
insisting on closing
just before dawn
and damming the flow
of all the projects
still wanting to be born.