(emily)

I work like
Emily, alone
in my house,
dashing things
off as fast as
I can,
before the next
one comes.
I am not vain
in saying it.
It’s just a
fact. I make no claim in it.
Nor do I wear
white,
finding it impractical
for the rest of
my life.

I always wondered
if Emily got
menses stains
upon her skirts.
And had to soak
and scrub
to get them out.

And how she
stayed within
the fence for
her whole life.

I like to get out
to walk myself,
or take a drive
in my red truck.

But I like to think
of Emily at her
small desk, a lady’s
desk I’m sure.
With tidy drawers
and papers bound
in orderly bundles.
Stitched together
with her own hand.

A bouquet of
pink roses
which Vinnie
brought. I think it only
right that they
took care of her,
all of them serving
her gift.
It was that large,
that generous.
I cry just
thinking of it,
and forgive her
her nun’s life.
The easy way
out, it always
seemed. Bitter,
bitter, bitter
grapes.

I like to
think of Emily
writing gaily
through the cheery
part of the afternoon,
pushing on past
the lonely dusk
when no one
came home
and took her in
their arms
to ask
what she had
had to say
today.

3/12/99