I call her Leela, she was alive long before Futurerama, crashing her mason jars to the ground. Leela is my muse, a vivid thing in tantrums looking old and young. A feral ghost tamed with music or scent, Leela writes in fits and starts. Like a dog, she wants out scratching at the door, but the whole wide world is too much, too fast. My eyes are filtered windows with shades she likes to close.
Leela walks the soft corridors of imagination stacked with collector’s jars–words and phrases left pickling in their brine, images caught hatching from autumn pods captured before their wings were dry.
She’s made my thinking parts a messy nest with clots of natty hair and fingernails.
A bird girl, she could be. A problem Thumbelina never birthed.
Who is your muse? Who writes you upside down?