Emily Dickinson’s lost dog


November 11 ,2010

Why are they still in pursuit?
Let the poor thing rest in peace.
Are they searching for a dog
Or the grave of a dead poet among the leaves?

Seasons and landscapes change
So do generations and tastes.
A classic poem can endure all
Except autopsies on its face.

Did the poet write of a lover
Or was the lover, a poet instead?
Was “Dandelion” a dress or a weed?
Dissecting her poems like guinea pigs.

Does she smile now at her soothed hurt?
edited into posthumous sanity today.
Richly bound her books, a collector’s item.
Her poems-masterpieces, they say.

She chuckles or maybe laughs aloud,
A preeminent poet, in her grave.
Free, as she never was, in her day
to compete with the best in her field of play.

Why should a poet rationalise her voice and thoughts?
She pities them, now that she is dead and done.
She understands their earnestness to master her tone
yet won’t they ever leave her lost dog alone?

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