Touring Emily Dickinson’s Home

Image

 

Sun dusts in

settling nowhere.

Her white dress is pressed flat

and held forever empty beneath cool plastic.

The desk where she wrote

sits pristine, devoid.

Her home is broken.

Robbed of creaking floorboards

and smoke-stained ceilings,

stripped of drafty, forgiving windows

who once let in antique exhalations of winter.

Gutted so it speaks no more,

I tour an unburied skeleton.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s