Visiting Emily Dickinson’s home in Amherst
After days divided into increments
of grocery lists, poetry and baking bread,
weary and delighted, you slip into
your dark wood single bed
and feel soft linens against your skin.
Did you exchange hungry kisses
with Judge Otis P. Lord on that bed?
Or, was it sacred space where
only dreams and poems were wed?
Harvard looted everything of yours
except this sleigh bed,
its head and foot boards slanting outward,
where you lay listening and let
the hodgepodge of eternity in.
© Barbara Alfaro
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