Vermilion Flower
Janine Canan
Emily Dickinson is staying at home. She's wearing her white eyelet dress, wandering in her night-garden, composing a poem. Her father sleeps. Emily Dickinson writes a letter to Mr. Higginson. Is it any good, Sir? she laughs. She's been growing many years now, pulling up weeds from China, sighting a lark over France, stunned by the evening sun in her backyard as Amherst turns past--the opal herd, the amber farm. Emily Dickinson has a solemn face. Her eyes are very strange. They're dark and look inward and out. Stars sparkle in the back of her head. In her hand--the vermilion flower outstretched.
