The Black Napkin Volume 1 Issue 5 - Page 26


winning a date with emily dickinson

"I shall never get you put together entirely"

-Sylvia Plath

What a wild, wild quiet to this room,

a Van Gogh’s ear of quiet.

I stand here in patient starch.

I know nothing of sadness, but sadness.

Step past the rope and it remains a room.

Could sit in this chair, could light a fire,

could go to this desk and write—personally,

I’ve never felt like myself until I’ve broken something.

They told me to wait here and you’d be up shortly.

I’ve heard you have to walk into a person’s room to really know them,

but in your parent’s house it’s never really your room, is it?

Place myself in a time,

place myself in a life—

there was indulgence in this house,

there was gossip in the town,

there was noise in the floor.

What do I give you—

a quick walk and a frantic forehead,

a wry smile and quiet step?

I may never get you put back together, will I?

Your favorite dress is white and kept under glass somewhere else

in the city.

Step past the rope and there’s furniture from within the family,

there’s the original stove and a bed you kept.

There’s water for washing, fire for heat,

windows to look through and light light light,

enough light for I love you.