The Fly Reflects On Emily Dickinson’s Death
“I heard a Fly buzz — when I died —“
—Emily Dickinson
Without rehearsal
she pulled her “big moment” off—
dying as she wished,
quietly as eyes closing—
an awkward silence
afterwards,
heavy
like that between storms
on the coast.
As I recalled Emily
and following the blaze
of her auburn hair
past her beloved Indian pipes,
blue trumpeting gentians
and crown imperials
I hummed, fervently
—the way others sing
old Christian hymns.
Emily lay as still
as a poem on a page
as I settled on her pillow.
I didn’t expect a King
to speak but I rubbed
my hands nervously
when talk of a will
—uncertain—hesitant—
entered the room.
Interposed between us
and the window’s light
were the bereaved
—and talk, talk, talk
of portions not yet
assigned.
A chill numbed the air.
I pulled my wings closer.
They were a flimsy shawl
in a thinning
light.
by Bob Bradshaw
Editor’s Note: This poem uses anthropomorphism to great effect, making it a skillful and interesting tribute to Emily and her fondness for personification.
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