How Soft This Prison Is

Monday, January 10, 2011

Body, bundle, country of twigs. Your nine gates opening, closing, spittle wet. A miracle you
existed at all. Fontanel, fallible. Your soul shaking inside. When you died, Leaves unhooked
themselves from Trees
. I watched them go like little mouths, dried and paper-flat, without music.
Ticker tape in shades of blood-orange, rust. And the wind did gently lay you down. I waited. I



Titles and italics from Emily Dickinson

Saturday, January 1, 2011