Poem-Envy, a Lullaby
In the flicker of my midnight lamp I mumble the holy triad—
last line, first line, title—polishing edges until they sting.
My opening coughs like reeds offbeat, and my title still hovers,
a ghost I can’t yet name, waiting for its echo.
I crack open Vuong, Clifton, Limón—comets blazing by,
their lines too precise for my stumbling pen to spy.
I envy dew at dawn that dies with perfect sigh,
while my verses dribble half-formed, and I wonder why.
I taste the Orchard’s Lament on my tongue—petals hesitant as brides—
and dream of guiding you in a coded waltz named Anderson MXX.
But my feet trip on shards of unspoken vows,
my lamb-soft promises turning to shadowed drafts.
The wind waltzes through golden reeds without a care
shouting melodies I can’t quite ensnare
I chase its song in fluorescent aisles and ghosted dorms
my notebook heavy with envy’s storms.
Still, I write—joyful fool stitching cracks with half-borrowed light—
hoping one day my last line will land like lightning,
my first line grip like a held breath,
and my title finally resonate as my own.
Poem-Envy Lullaby.
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