Emily Dickinson.
I have always been suspicious of Emily.
And--
[LAUGHTER]
I think it was while I was here, one of my professors
said that something had been discovered to the effect
that Emily had a little cabin in the woods where
she'd go for rendezvous.
But this poem was written before I had received
that bit of information.
I do admire her, of course, as a poet.
I'm not badmouthing her from that angle.
Anyway, "Last Night, Emily Dickinson."
"Last night, Emily Dickinson flew over my house
on a fried chicken liver.
[LAUGHTER]
Mushy grass, hair unloosed, and her apron
tucked up under her white knees.
She went by teeth bared, digging her nails
into the fried crust of the victual
as if to make it scream, cursing it in the language.
I could not understand for fright.
Goats rose up their curious heads
all around the horizon to see what
had gone wrong with the world.
Draped with damp seaweed like bridal veils.
Some still with tin can lids or tough leather shoe tongues
in their mouths and lulled.
She shot over the dark margin of the trees
like a comet bound to explode.
And then the pale light of it, I saw their bloodless faces,
white like the heads of tapeworms,
turn in an even sweep to watch her go.
We set our teeth, but the explosion never came.
So we went back to bed.
There were only grease spots on the window panes.
In the imminent darkness, like a butterfly,
my heart tore in two."