Finally, A New Poem

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

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