History Lessens

Clio knocks at my door,
Begging to be let in—
“Make love to me,” she calls through the thin wooden frame.
“And I will tell you a story.”

I grab the remote
And crank up the volume on the news.
She’s been over before, and I’m never happy when we’re done.
Her attention discomforts me.

I’m looking for a younger woman,
A muse with a pretty face,
With no lines in the corners of her eyes, no wrinkles in her smile.
Who needs no blush to hide her years.

Clio is far too honest, her songs painful, unforgiving;
I want a lover willing to lie
To make me feel virile, virtuous when she leaves my bed.
Clio’s truth has no place for illusion.

I want to be able to forget
The melody and lyrics she sings,
The story she tells, to believe the past is as beautiful as I pretend,
That it is worth the statues we have built in its honor.

So, Clio knocks louder,
“Lie with me,” she cries.
I cup my hands over my ears and whisper, “She is not here.
She cannot reach me.”