Friday, April 16, 2010

Day 16

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.



    Emily Dickinson

    She was no longer a user
    Don't think she realised we knew that
    Not one to make a fuss
    Why this and not something else
    Wasn't it obvious?

    She made such a hash of it
    You can’t help but notice
    A near absence of tenderness
    And who wants to live like that?

    And friends turned their backs on her
    She, no longer a user
    And she wanted to stay home
    With a box full of postcards
    And no place to send them
    Live like Emily Dickinson
    Without so much as a kiss
    Or the comfort of strangers
    Withdrawing into herself
    But why this and not something else?


Reach for the clouds. . .

Tickle your toes. . .

Poets United Contributor