A Question for Emily

She said the dead did not stand up,

therefore it could not be that.

But I delt death spread through my head

despite a lively facade.

Is death truly absolute--

either this or that?

Or could there be an in between

where I exist and she had sat?

Neither hot or cold

could she feel.

She said she was trapped--in time or a box?

But I could not ask,

therefore she could not tell.

If you're trapped

between live and death

you adapt; and yet

she couldn't justify despair?

Emily, can you not find the key

for a breath of air?

If that's the case,

then dear Emily,

truly where you sit

in cool chaos

does justify the loss you feel

if there is no "chance or Spar".

* * *

I wrote this short poem after spending days in deep contemplation about Dickinson's poem "It Was Not Death, For I Stood Up". This poem had been my favorite throughout high school that I'd even memorized for school projects. Unfortunately, I've forgotten most of the words at this point in my life. Just recently, Dickinson's poem popped back into my head without a clear cause or reason. It simply returned just like that. Perhaps it has returned because I've been struggling once again as I had been in high school when I became transfixed by how relatable the poem had felt. Perhaps it's because I've been feeling a pressing sense of nostalgia recently. I'm still unsure.

During one of my college English courses, I wasn't paying too much attention to the lecture--if I'm truly honest--and a sort of reply ran through my head. Taken back by this moment, I jotted the words down. I'm not one to call myself a poet because I'm not. My specialty is prose. Satisfied with this little verse, however, I've decided to share my work with you.