Kristy Bowen
DISORDER
(for Emily Dickinson)
By now, you've surely put
away your poems, folded
them like handkerchiefs,
obedient daughters tucked
soundless in the drawer,
nested amidst tea-stains
and woman things, strange
and fragrant as the rain.
You've walked the close
circumference of your room,
undone stillness like a
corset, your heart
winging in its tiny cage
of bone, disassembling
language like a moth
pinned to a board.
Despite the neatness
of your lines, the mythology
of the needle, in that
picture, you look frightened,
stunned listless,
in constant danger
of throwing everything
out a window.
And watching as the pages
float like ghosts
anonymously down
the narrow lanes of Amherst,
your fingers --
your blood --
aching for their loss.
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