The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Susan McLean
A Poet’s Garden of Vices
Evergreen
Envy, I was wrong about you: you’re the air a writer breathes. No ambition thrives without you,
Envy. I was wrong to doubt you.
Even through the longest drought, you
stay as green as laurel wreaths.
Envy, I was wrong about you: inspiration writhes and seethes. Voracious
The pink half-moon,
the mango’s blush,
the scalloped dune,
the moss’s plush, the cardinal’s call,
the opal’s shine—
I’ll swallow them all
and make them mine.
Generator If, like amoebas, we could bud,
there’d be no angst, no broken heart.
There’d be no wars, no rape, no blood.
There’d be no art. Secretary of the Interior We sit on an island, Pride and I, and gaze at a page, in which I see
how—with each bend and trim and lie—
I’m shaping my self, like a bonsai tree, to be the fairest of them all:
twisted and perfect and very small. Trickle Down The pot of honey, the dangled prize,
the ones with money who patronize. Heartwarmer Anger, you’ve spurred me on to fight, with switchblades, bullets, and grenades of words and wit. Through every slight, Anger, you’ve spurred me on to write. Your stubborn flame’s the pilot light that fires me when conviction fades. Anger, don’t leave: hold off the night, which welcomes me with razor blades.
In Short
Given my indolence, I am
inclined to stick to epigram.
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