My Affair With Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson opens the door,
raven hair wrapped in a white linen band,
beckons me in with a scoop of her hand
and proceeds to the parlor to sit on the floor.

There by the fireplace I pour her some wine,
read her some phrases I've stored in my books,
watch as she offers with self-conscious looks
her intangible fantasies, line after line.

Suddenly all of my choices are clear:
needing to kiss her regardless of cost
even if love is eternally lost
and in spite of the danger that dreams disappear.

Let me just say that her kisses were deep,
and the rest is a secret we've both sworn to keep.

KR Mullin is co-editor of A Flasher's Dozen (Submission Guidelines). He and his veterinarian wife live in South Jersey with their dogs and cat; he works full time as a Tumor Registrar in a community hospital.

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