DICKINSON AS A POETESS
by Annie Finch
Page 6
DIVING PAST VIOLETSThese words and I don't see you, though we charge
like horses past your tumid living stems,
stepping behind our braided forelocks, down
the paths your stems make, rooting underground.Our tails move last into the mossy dirt,
swishing the last ray of daylight off.
How else could we approach? I knew I'd end
with winding, deep inside such patient caves.
TRIBUTE
"You'll find--it when you try to die--"
--Emily DickinsonWhen there are no words left to live,
I have elected hersto haunt me till my margins give
around me, web and bone.Her voice has vanished through my own.
She makes me like a stonethe falling leaves will sink and stay
not over, but upon.
