Emily, No Letters In Hand Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

[for Emily Dickinson, a letter a little late]

why is there no word washed ashore for me
did she ever cry in silent reading of a
New England twilight, breathless at the window

how will we know her in her white dress-
when ghostlike perhaps she comes to call-
from snow or mist

my name is Emily she says

soft as snow intense she said
as the sherry in the cup
after the guests have fled.

mary angela douglas 27 july 2016