For All The Words Dished Up - Two For Emily Dickinson
For all the words dished up,
A plate without meat. Maybe, bone.
No love fattened you,
never used your flesh.
Green as grass you stayed.
Dauntless, no narrow fellow passed.
This talk of death, dear Emily,
I know it intimately - plain talk
describes it best, as you know,
this Mystery grotesque -
concreteness like tombs hard in
the eye or that slant of light
obscured by a fly.
OK. It's done now. And ever will be,
for all the words in green
afternoons cannot evade mortality -
and soul no more than that butterfly be,
I laugh to call it Eternity that waits
beneath this plank, that other room
where a coach kindly stopped,
dropped you, yellow wing, still and
dark, now daunted and alone.
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(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
- Heather Burns
(27 January 1832 – 14 January 1898)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)