emily dickinson finally fucking

 

you, little bride,

with fire under her arm

saint brigid unsheathed

bucking and braying at the beat

of every unwritten thing

what heat in what there isn’t said, 

what flame in words unspoken

emily wrote and wrote to whom

and still their spells were broken

what by death and rich unrest,

fueling every lyric?

wild nights in her cloistered root,

days to reckon w unsung fruit

emily, yearning were you for touch,

so tender ‘neath your sheets?

gazing out windows and scribing

away, while the whole world bleats

all of your scribbles, razor sharp,

and oh what a passionate tongue

honey the flesh is full of delights

certain to leave you undone

Goddess unbind me

from what great defeat

from writhing alone in my bed

maybe my poetry’s grown in leagues it’s time for the touch, too, undead!