Emily Dickinson

Do not fret, 
for I have never seen 
Vesuvius either – 
thus far, we are 
equals. (Although 
that fantasy quickly 
crumbles apart.)

––––––

You write of Death so freely and
it makes me wonder how you must 
perceive the whole ordeal. 
Is it your past, present, and future? 
Everything and nothing at the same time?

Does it surround you on all sides –
pressing into your already corseted figure – 
crawl through the twisted canals 
of your ears and finally drift its way into your nose, 
glide down towards your cavernous lungs? 

When you look up 
from the table, what 
is it that you see – or, 
instead, who is it 
that you see?

Is it Death himself?