Dickinson

She stares aloud -
Her lips an open pout;
Wanting to speak
But the bird - trapped
I imagine her - the window
pale face looking out
over the drifts of dead -
wondering - what must it be like?
in white she drops the clothes
and is to us as all women are:
supple in corners, opened envelope.
she sits in serge to write
of birds and bees and humming bugs
of guns and death and dates with love.
all Dickinson is naked
to the eye:
a pen scratching back
the tin foil of life!
now her words fly in the face
of age and time and of woman's place;
she screws the men that write,
discards them in the bin -
not quite as they expected
as her words explode
with words on words an ear
in dark woods, folded, murder/victim.