Emiloma: A Riddle & An Answer
Will you be
my death, breast?
I had asked you
in jest and in response
you hardened—a test
of my resolve? Malignant
magnificent palimpsest.
*
Will you be
my death, Emily?
Today I placed
your collected poems
over my breast, my heart
knocking fast
on your front cover.
*
Will you be
my death, chemo?
The shell of my self
in the sphere of time
plucking, plucking
the wool of my hair
from its branches.
*
Will you be
my death, Emily?
And keep the sky
from reaching inside—
you, the voice; me, the faithful echo?
Will you be
my death, echo?
*
Do you know—no
in which meadow—mow
the gingko grows—goes
which is fallow, which furrowed—foes
what is winnowed, what is—woe.
***
Photograph of Katie Farris courtesy of Katie Farris.
