By Thomas Page

With the glide of a
Pen, Emily Dickinson
Writes a little poem.

She looks out her room’s
Window, the cemetery
Calls her to picture

Momento mori—
The fly captures dying light
From someone’s pale eyes

The buzz steals the soul
As the weak lids close firmly
To open nevermore.

She puts her stylus
Down to consider the
March, the Danse Macabre

Of someone maybe
Known to her, maybe not. Plays
The show in her head

The hymnal’s tune runs
Through her imagination.
She pours over sound

A creaking bell dwells
In her head as dirt laid
On the coffin outside

While funeral rite
Blesses the deceased person
Until kingdom come.

She wonders how her name
Reads when she is like them out
Her window, her dead

Audience. The fly
Resumes its path to her, lands
Above the fresh grave.

She moves her finger
To catch the fly as if
Some design willed her to.

It flies away at
Her touch. Instead, she senses
Cool, clear glass framing

The cemetery
Below. The gray day welcomes
Her thoughts of what if,

What if not. She stands
To leave the room but sees now
That there is more to

Discover. She picks
up her pen to write for
Herself little tunes.

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