In the Emily

Dickinson Museum

MARGARET WALTHER

 

 

Little birds on stilts chant—Zero, Zero at the Bone—

As dream approaches this grave-lined yard.

 

There is no rack. I carry my bicycle inside, hide it—Where?

Quick—behind Emily’s beckoning bed.

 

In the living room, her writing desk. Enter at your risk.

Tiny knives fasten all the drawers.

 

Rows of suspended sculptures move on wires.

Under each—circling sand—magenta, azure, electric green.

 

Emily—her white perfection—graces every one. Clarety-

haired, she etches words onto alabaster stars.

 

The last one, Juggler. Hundreds of wire balls

with iridescent beads arc and fall into her slender hands.

 

Suddenly—the sculptures still.

Closed, the museum door—sonorous—announces.

 

I run, retrieve my bike. But who could mount it now?

Front wheel—Transposed into a saw—