This one is for Emily Dickinson; the death obsessed.
Should It Come To This
She was shot just above the eyebrow.
You almost wished the bullet’s impact
Had not obliterated the scalp’s crown.
You try to imagine (it is
Impossible) how beautiful the skull
Must have been in that moment.
How the bone held the bullet
Like a child. You try to imagine
The lament of everything
Breaking open all at once,
How the soul must have muttered
Something of consequence
Just before the last breath
She ever took as an unpried shade
Entombed in the bones of her body.
She must have screamed for freedom.
She must have kicked as though about to be
Born from the skull’s belly.
She must have flinched at the sudden blast
Of understanding, how now,
In a moment of sudden, she became an escapee.
She must have shuttered with surprise,
And, bewildered by the world
She longed to enter,
Threw her arms into the air
And gave in too the word—finally.
I welcome your thoughts