​My Fingers Are Trying
by Leonor Morrow

How I envy you.
Not for your hair, or your teeth,
but for the way you hold yourself like a castle.

The way others want to climb up your tower.

I am the fortress no one wants to claim.
There is ivy growing on my limbs

and my corridors are so hollow
that thoughts echo inside of them for days.

Your chambers are full of trombones.
There is light streaming into your windows,
and laughter tickling your chandeliers.
There are knights knocking at your door.

Your walls are made from the finest glass
so that anyone can look into your navigable heart.
I have trouble merely unlocking my front gates.

I swear my fingers are trying.
Most days they are earthquakes,
but sometimes they seem to tremble less.

It’ll take time to clear all the debris from my lawn,
but eventually I will sweep my floors.
I will mend my pillars
and learn how to stand straight.

I am beginning with simple fixes.
Hanging banners in the drawing room,

and tending to the fire.
One day, my breath will be used for kindling.
People will come over for supper.
 
My palace has always overlooked yours,
but soon I will not be resentful.
 
Until then,
I must be patient with myself.