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Emily, You Could Not Shout
by Phibby Venable

It is possible
in the sterile room
to capture
whiteness, which
could be any
thing or become
a salvation
against slavery–
love binding
as tightly as chains
words fighting
as soldiers against
spinsterhood,
against children
you cannot call your
own, a position
at the mercy of others,
all because of aloneness.
Emily you could not shout
in the long hallways
and rooms that
emptied everyone
into a life of their own
or a grave of their own
while you pulled the coffin lid down,
tending the rooms, carrying
the bed pans, starting the fires.
Your sherry eyes saw all,
the knotted hair blazed,
a rebellion behind
closed doors–
where your last request
was to be carried, not driven
through a field of flowers.





 


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