Academic journal article Field

Dickinson in Snow

Academic journal article Field

Dickinson in Snow

Article excerpt

No sound from the start or

words just give way. Must be

rage in it. Perhaps I made that up,

her windows surely dark-deep in its crepe

months on end

and probably her never the proper shoes

like men got.

In summer, her stab at wit, part unkind,

part prophecy. That story, an old woman confused

trying to get home, stopping to ask

bewildered, and Dickinson-

down there, turn left, that's right-matter of facting her

straight to the graveyard.

My grandfather called such a place

a marble orchard each time we passed its

calmest eye and stones

spiring up near fields. So many chiseled names

weathered to unreadable. And closing in,

the busy self-absorbed com. …

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