My dearest Lavinia,
for Emily Dickinson
You, ever my confidante-
I hoped that you might be
available, fingers interlaced,
with my boot step atop-
ready to boost me up.
Mother, in the kitchen, was at an audible distance,
and I tried not to let my dark red-
tea spill on my lap when I felt it,
she cannot stand to see me stained.
I should know to not hurry to her-
when I am troubled.
And father and brother, ever-sober
stoically cast their eyes aside-
away from me and my feminine zeal.
My heart breaking, but bound up in lace.
My blaspheming, unlovely thoughts-
of keeping the Sabbath at home.
They just see joggled-
weary eyes stuck inside too many books.
They do not hear me.
My, dear, dear sister,
you know I am always alone, and
always willing to endure it-
I am still sweet as honey,
But lately bees are few-
and all I have are buzzing memories.
As I write this letter you cannot see-
this true look of agony, on my face.
You soft, cherubic creature, my sister.
As you know I have not made any marital commitments,
and as you know my heart is once again broken,
But I will continue to stand upon my toes-
Even though no man had ever instructed me.
Tickle your toes. . .
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