afterthought

Ocean Vuong was “invited” to spend

an hour alone inside Emily Dickinson’s room,

the room at Amherst where she wrote her poems

and bound them together with a common string,

written in an uncommon tongue, and placed them

fold on fold inside the chosen compartment of her dresser.

Vuong tells us of this experience, and tells us

he couldn’t bring himself to write anything during his time

in Emily's room; that her living presence was palpable.

instead, for his hour in paradise, he simply sat quietly, and listened

to the stillness, and to the silence of the window overlooking

the manicured grounds at Amherst.

who else can grip one with that kind of mystery but Emily Dickinson?

nobody can. nobody should. who would dare to try?

as for me I’ll continue to write in my approach, fractured as it often is,

content to be a part of the existence; counting outbound

from the 3rd planet of the yellow dwarf revolving in concert

within an outer barb of the pinwheel; a pinprick of residence

in the star-glistened galactic island's community.

like her. like him. like you. like everyone. like everything.