In My Dream of Emily Dickinson
Set high on a shelf above my reach
by my mother passing through the room
a photograph of you, Emily—
the original daguerreotype
from
ribbon at your neck, eyes steady, direct,
arm resting near a book; no added ruff
or curls that later sold your work.
Near me on the couch, a toddler—peach skin,
unspeaking—sits on a woman’s lap,
is bounced on her knee: an odd vision
of maternity, I realize—this “child”
a porcelain doll that doesn’t blink or breathe,
its mother carrying on as if it were alive.
What do you think as you gaze down
at the toy’s vacant stare swallowing
the room, its perfect flush caught, well-turned,
to suggest what isn’t there—lifeblood
of hand and wrist conveyed in paint?
Why not turn to your herbarium instead,
its best specimens plucked from your garden
or the woods, dried, parchment-bound, Latin names
scored in your precise script? You’re the child
of your father’s house, your step soft
as a bird that frightens easily,
ruffles its nerves to rhyme’s flight, retreats
to a single room with saturated
Sight
to
meet apart With
just the Door ajar,
and
I in the hall, thinking to come in.
What would I find? Your devoted care
of your own sweet mother, affectionate
but ill; your father’s stern preoccupations?
Your life is Like
a Cup—you
say—Discarded
of the Housewife; the
doll, bisque skin cracked,
nests in the dark. You bow-tie your words
into fascicles you tuck in drawers,
while wind rattles the spring garden,
tumbles blossoms’ heads, splattered paths
petal-drenched, your mind’s heat
staining each page, the storm’s quiet eye.
I’m on the threshold, Emily, salvation or despair,
your room washed in that white light—
Published
in After the