Emily Dickinson

I stay up late to read Emily Dickinson's poems again and again
because nobody did when she was still here.*
I speak of her, it is the very least that she deserves;
hers was a common name in gossip for becoming a "spinster," but that
was her key to independence. Plus, it's so awkward when you are so gay.
The memory of her still burns strong.
She left an important mark before she was gone.
I'm saying all this, in this funny way,
to hold your attention, if I may.

Emily Dickinson was a woman ahead of her time,
they say that so sadly, but she knew it to be true,
and so she lived her life the way she wanted to.
She never stopped writing, even when they begged her to
"No," she said simply, and I'm paraphrasing here,
"I'm a woman and I belong here."
Because she did.
And, I bet she took up every room.


*She was born December 10, 1830, in Massachuttes, and died on May 15, 1886, at 55-years-old, in her home town. She only published 10 poems in her lifetime, but since her death, 1,800 of them have been published and greatly appreciated. So, thanks, Emily, may you rest in peace.