Emily Dickinson to the Rescue
Standing in her house today all I could think of was whether she took a shit every
morning
or ever fucked anybody or ever fucked herself God's poet singing herself to sleep You want these sorts of things for people Bodies and the earth and the earth inside Instead of white nightgowns and terrifying letters * Here she comes her hands out in front of her like a child flying above its bed at night
Her ankles and wrists held tightly between the fingers of some brightly lit parent home
from a party
Flying Her spine spinning Singing "Here I come!" Her legs pumping her heart out * Heaven is everywhere but there's still the world
The world is made out of cancer, house fires, and Brain Death, here in America
But I love the world Emily Dickinson to the rescue I used to think we were made of bread gentle work and water We're not but we're still beautiful killing each other as much as we can beneath the pines The pines that are somebody's masterpiece