EMILY DICKINSON HAD THE WORST TASTE IN MEN
by Katha Pollitt
Page 9
I seem to write rather a lot of poems that are about poetry in one way or another, and this one is about the unhappier side of one's relationship to poems--the poems that don't work out. It's called "Abandoned Poem."
It's awful how they look at you
Consumptive, all eyes in their white beds,
Coughing delicately into their handkerchiefs,
And feebly hissing,
"Don't leave us here, you bastard.
This is your fault."
What can you do but agree?
It's no use to harden your heart,
no use to explain why you had to save yourself,
still less to confess
how happy you are without them,
how already you see yourself under the trees in the park.
You read the paper;
you eat a ham sandwich,
then shake out the crumbs for the pigeons,
and walk on, savoring the mild autumnal air
of your new country,
the kingdom of health and silence.
