Leaving my mind. Dear Emily.

Not losing it,
but leaving it..
I've left it
almost
entirely..
What?
you say.
My mind,
of course.

It's over there.
Do you see it?
It's over there,
behind the shelf
where life is...

Right, Emily?

Dear Emily Dickinson.

I remember your words
informing me
that life is over there..

behind the shelf..

Life. Where is it?
Over there...
behind that shelf.

That is where life is
and where my mind is.
Yes?

That shelf is filled with magic
and sorrow
and picture albums
which are
filled with pictures
of dead people
and alive people
and me
and 4-leaf clovers
pressed into books
of poetry
by you,

dear Emily.
my Emily.

(If I say it,
it might come true.)

My mind is over there
on the shelf
in front of life
NO.
It is behind it.

behind it

They are together,
LIFE
and my mind
behind the damned old shelf
where the spiders live.

It is dusty, and, yes
there is a spider
in one corner.
She is staring at me,
perched above my mind
in this stupid shelf
where life also is.

What about death?
Where is that?
Is it behind a shelf, too?
Is it under it?

Do I die first, to find it?
Do I die to find death?
Is it the only way?

I don't know.
I want to go, though.
I am ready to fly down.

Flying
down
is different than regular
everyday normal old flying...

Flying
down
means goodbye.

My mind is not well,
that's why it's behind the shelf
or on it..
Is it on it or behind it?

WHERE IS MY HEAD?

Dear Emily,
I miss you.
Isn't that peculiar?
A strange thing to say?

I miss you, dear poet.
You were brilliant
and beautiful
and sad
and reclusive
and lonely...

lonely
like me

Your last words haunt me.
You must go in,
the fog is rising.

the fog is rising

Is it?
I miss the fog.

I lived in a foggy town.
A small, foggy town.
A town filled with fog
on cool mornings
after warm nights.

I lived in a lake town
a tourist town
sleepy town
mean town
filled with demons
and dreams
and trivial things
like elections for mayor
or sheriff or judge.

Who are they
to judge?

They have their own shelves.

Will anyone read my poems
after I die?
Will anyone hear my songs?
I wonder if you sing now.

I think it's sad that you never knew me
never had a chance to know me
and sad now, how I write to you
and also
to a world that does not know me..

I send my
"letter to the world
that never wrote to me"

Just like you said.

I write to a world
that doesn't know
me,
'cept a few,
who must be crazy
to follow me
through these rainbow shadows
and crumbling hills.

Did I mention
that I am alone?

My friends are gone away
I sit here, lonely
at the end
of this day...

No husband,
no dreams,
no longing
for anything.

This is just a poem,
read nothing into it.
I do have a husband
and I do have dreams.

Don't I ? Do I?

The jury is out,
find the judge.
She's behind the shelf
screwing the mayor
what a stupid old slut.

Don't frown at me,
it's just a word.

slut

It means
"one who is slutty"
"something akin to a whore"

I don't know where this is going.
I don't know who will take me
when the light dies
in my quivering eyes.

Who will lay me down
into a proverbial coffin
or a real one?
I don't know.

I just want to go.

---

^{Picture: Emily Dickinson. From emilydickinsonmuseum.org}