A Lullaby, by Amy Miller

Sleep now. The city
you were building in your head,
its shouting and conveyances,
its strikers and unhelpful signs,
its cops with their stern citations,
rest. Rest the piteous call
from your sister and the words
you boiled in the pot
all day.
Somewhere
deer fatten in a sudden
thaw. A lake floats hundreds
of Russians in bathing suits.
And your dreams—no one can take
those wild paintings
and unbelievable music,
or your lashes dropping
their feathers, or the factory
of your own lungs,
quietly working into the night.

This poem was featured in Rattle, and I really love what the author said in her bio: … “when I’m writing a poem, when suddenly something exists that wasn’t there before … that’s a different kind of thrill and addiction. And like that lover you can’t get out of your system, its maddening unpredictability only makes it more desirable.”

suddenly something exists that wasn’t there before —

Like the words you boiled in a pot, and eyelashes dropping feathers; like the factory of your own lungs quietly working into the night. None of those things existed until Amy Miller wrote them all in the same poem!