‘A poet is never just a woman or a man. Every poet is salted with fire. A poet is a mirror, a transcriber.’

Susan Howe

Emily could live—did live. Emily could die—did die.
And every time I speak for her—the mountains straight reply—
hearing with their shadows and listening with their breath. 
Senses, senses are breaking through—into being what is, 
or what may appear to be—into an ear and into the I and into us. 
The wreckage of our silence falls heavily in procession—
as all the bells in heaven drill a welcome—welcome
to this house—with everlasting windows, superior to doors. 
Wrestle with a swallow and try to hold it down. Consider all 
things beautiful—the daisies and the clouds. I was late, 
Emily murmured—curving against the ages of mistaken shells—
leaving before the pearls responded—our time has just begun. 
All morning—while unaccounted for, you are a swan balancing
on stem—unafraid by prattling ambition, invisible as music—
as positive as sound. It beckons and it baffles into the wild, wild
judgment settling in this house. Emily walks the boundaries
with sighs and gentle whisperings—wooing all the branches
and the branches—they are won. There is a plot of spiders—
but only in a jar—sealed firmly by the melody you were told
is so bright and so sweet. Break all the compasses and trash away 
the charts—once you have arrived—you must remove your jacket
and put down your hat. Leave your notes for the birds, as money 
makes it scenic for Emily to slip—falling from her tiny chair—
into the saddest and maddest of demands. Scolded for her hunger
but celebrated for her songs—a warning siren in her throat—
of a hundred flutes carved from a hundred trees. Mimicking a new
species without a voice to spare. After her great pain—a formal 
feeling comes. First, the chills, then the stupor—the private aches
of knowing what is when and the time to let it go—consecutive
and slow. Concealed between the ransom of desire’s perfect goal.

Glowing is Emily’s bonnet and glowing are Emily’s cheeks.
Flowing is Emily’s petticoat and yet she cannot speak—
As nature gently owns her—we embellish all we own. 

Sing three cheers for the gentleman who first observed the moon
cutting the dullness of my fingers, so peculiar and perplexed—
tracing the hooked lines of maps and the sweeping of the heart.
As the smallest housewife—restricted to satin vests, my business
is to uncover things secretly and as silent as morning dew.
Bribing knowledge with roses—their industrious petals creased
in my hands defied to be defined—as punctual as mystery hums—
Eden is old-fashioned with unused lips in finite—spotted hours.
This life is but life—and death—not death but bliss. The gains
of generations wager the scholars with buccaneers of buzz. 
The flies are bees, the bees are wasps—the tolls of mansions
rise. All the husbands are liable—not my cold and simple breasts.
While measuring the nectar there is a pompous joy in power—
lost in heated balm—as Emily wails her distant tunes simply
wishing to outlast the sun. There are things for eyes to see
and sounds for ears to hear—as a friend attacks another friend
while doctors wait in chambers—for the heavy promise of a dial.
The gods have spoken with mouths of berries full—agreeing
houses are for birds and dear aristocracy. Too fine for twigs
to measure. Fame has its own ballad—a wing and a foolish 
slice of cake. Loyalty is a fine invention for the necromancers 
and the landlords. Let us wake them with their trumpets—
fluttering their teeth so frosted white—there is no more snow.
Bankers, brokers, burglars—please reimburse my store. I find
myself poor and absent—hoping just for more—as oars divide
the oceans—too silver for a seam—though sailors still skirt 
the shores for bold discoveries. There is a tune an orchestra 
cannot chance to play. For an ear can break a human heart 
as quickly as a spear—as we cannot banish air from air—
and trust in the faith that decoration offers conclusion here.