I read the poems of Emily Dickinson,
Her words cradling death succinctly,
encircling a stiffened corpse in the parlor,
Staring at the blackened hole of eternity.
Though often the Lord would breathe on her eyelids
In the gardens as she watched the butterfly and bee,
Although appearance is fickle next to oblivion,
as death was there she could clearly see.
Had she completely forsaken visceral delight?
Or perhaps still indulge in a soapy bath
Allowing her hands to roam in blushing appetite
Then to rise wrapped in a downy cloth.
Love's trauma tipped her scale!
To set the world aside for the cosmic all;
And yet, did the tea and cozy fire comfort her
Marking time near the silent, darkened hall.
James Guy
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