Because Emily cannot stop for Death
Death stops for her.
From my wagon, loaded
with cut grain,
I see that he wears
a dark blue suit
with a white dress shirt.
Where is Emily going?
She rarely leaves
her father’s grounds.
Usually she’s poised,
dressed in white,
looking as untouched
as a cloud, adrift
in her own world.
Today wispy tendrils
are leaking out
from her bands
of red hair.
Death offers his hand,
assisting her
into his carriage.
Being a Dickinson,
she looks confident
as if Immortality
is seated next to her.
Why doesn’t she carry
any luggage?
Clearly she doesn’t plan
to stay overnight
where she is going.
Slowly the carriage
pulls away. Death tips
his hat at me.
Emily is looking
out the carriage
at the school,
children always
a favorite
of hers,
though not babies—
as Sue found out
when she had hers
and Emily was never
around—to help—
though once
she did offer Sue
her housekeeper
Maggie.
Emily shivers
dressed in gossamer gown,
and tulle tippet,
another sign she left
in a hurry—
that the driver
didn’t allow her
enough time
to dress properly.
The carriage stops
where the ground swells
like roofs of houses.
Her lot is wild grass, pigweed,
disheveled dandelions—
suggesting
not Immortality
but an Eternity
of untidiness.
A headstone nearby
is leaning, as if a Mr. Sanders
had grown restless
in his sleep
and rolled over
onto his side.
I don’t need to ask Death–
once he drops Miss Emily off–
when he will come
again. I know
his answer:
Soon.
by Bob Bradshaw
from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, January 24, 2025
Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim
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