A Product of Number Two-Five-Four

By Priscilla

What fond thoughts occur today, Miss Dickinson

As you approach a grisly fate with arms outstretched,

I sit in your house, ignored and desolate.

Here I am,

Conversing with George Sand.

(She should take off her cravat, she’s not fooling anyone.)

Do webs and dust amuse you?

Do they alone impress you to write of hope and eternity?

Do you read to them? You have yet to read to me, Miss Dickinson.

I see you, Emily.

Picking the flowers, ignoring the children who

throw stones at City Hall,

screaming for sanctuary.

And free verse.

But every thing with feathers comes a sacrifice.

And as I watch you, Miss Dickinson, regain composure,

The coroner uncovers the bones.

A stone falls out of one hand,

free verse out of another.

You could be the next child to see Cerberus.

You taught me, Miss Dickinson.

I found hope.

I am a product of number two-five-four.

I see you, Miss Dickinson, and I don’t blame you…

for wanting it this way.