Austin Wallace
At Emily Dickinson’s House, 2003
Just down the street she hid—and wrote—
Transcribing fevered Dreams—
One syllable—then two—became
The turbulence of Storms
I find her house marked on the map—
From here—five minutes south—
Outside a polar Wind takes aim—
Inflicts pain—with each—Breath
The winter sun and ochre paint—
A xanthic Potency—
So with the hands of one gone blind
I search—for Poetry
No Flowers blooming in the Snow—
No relics from a Myth—
Only stray strands of Gossamer—
Once left out—for a Moth
Inspecting hairpins—bed sheets—shoes—
I feel my Awe grow numb—
Then boredom—gradually—intrudes—
Prosaic as a thumb
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Austin Wallace is a former teacher who now devotes his time to the Disability Rights movement. His poems have appeared in BlazeVox, Three Line Poetry, and Daily Dose of Lit.
