Sometimes I wish that Emily
would come knock at my door,
and she’d be wearing white, of course,
and I would bid her in.
And then I might confess to her
as through the door she passed,
“Oh Friend! I’d say, “I’m Nobody!
We are in fact a pair!
But that would be too Somebody
of me to say, I’m sure.
So I would simply let her in
and show her to the couch.
We’d sit and drink a bit of tea.
I imagine it is black.
Would she take sugar? I don’t know.
I’d offer anyway
with cookies that I baked today
the ones with mint inside.
We’d take turns sipping at our tea
and then resting our cups.
I would be sure to not step on
long pauses when she spoke—
just waiting for the full effect
when her words land on me
as oftentimes they do these days,
as when last week I read
again the lines about one’s name,
about the tiresome bog.
I felt such longing in me then
to be a Nobody.
and thought, “You’re so right, Emily,”
But she’d hate to be named.
So when she sits across from me
I never mention how
I’ve read all of her poetry,
I never say her name.
And I don’t dream of asking her
of where she got her thoughts,
the line, for instance, with the frog
the line about the bog.
I simply say, Oh look, the sun,
it’s very nearly down.
And would you like another cup,
before the light escapes.