Oh, Sara, sigh.
Emily Dickinson frocks?

Pinafores and bound titties
and scuffed booties to rock

the stripped pedals?
Your banal pith: breathless riffs

and anal retention in an alcove
hot with beggar's rhymes.

To wit: the attic tilts left at sunrise.
In em dashes, the typewriter lies.

Sara, what year this morning?
Did you bump your dumb head?

On a flower pot aimed
by a celibate god?

Why, with your youth ahead
do you prefer to live

as if dead? Morbid little nun.
Ninny. Silly wannabe.

But, of all, Emily? I must ask
why. Just try, Sara. Try.


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