of Emily Dickinson's "I died for Beauty--but was scarce"
Riff stemming from the lines, "We talked between the [r]ooms-- / Until the [m]oss had reached our
lips-- / And covered up--our names--"
We talked across the mattress, misshaping
our mouths for exaggerated absence
similar to someone dying. But death,
for us, slept a few doors down--barely
a neighbor. His house was a weak
apricot, quiet and well manicured.
Even the sound of bicycle bells
caused its shudders to shiver. And he
looked frail. An accountant, that's
what our mother called him. Long
hours hunched over numbers, files
of all these people that owe him
their lives. My sister and I agreed
death must be boring--until he visited
our house, to speak with mother. Her mouth
lazily fell silent, open, similar to a misshaped O.
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