After Emily Dickinson
The hall ends with each wall meeting to
form a center point on the horizon. This
point becomes the head of an arrow twanging
in the good green wood of my skull. My
skull opens around the cool blue blade like
a pair of newborn lips.
Slow motion is a color one imagines falling in.
Running. Forehead pulse swells to twin
rivers. My palms are graveyards speckled
with fingernails. Sound of an arrow. Unfocused
eyes and speeding heartbeat circle a quiet
moment alone with small animals. Cold stone
beneath my feet. Old portraits in the hallway
coo tired advice. Sound of an arrow. A door.
I open it and stare at a face staring at mine
with my own newborn eyes through my own death mask.