Poem
Arts
Campus Life

Emily Dickinson in Columbus, Ohio

Intersections No. 17 · Summer 2003

When Emily Dickinson woke up on
the COTA, she thought that the world
had ended, and her violets were gone

forever. In a seat, by papers with curled
edges, she strained to see outside
grime and take in the contemporary world.

An old black woman who never showered sat beside
her, and the stench crowded her nostrils. She
tried to move, but the woman refused to provide

ample room. Unladylike, Emily broke free
by trampling over soiled seats and leaping
over grocery bags. People became disagreeable

with her once again, so she irritably pushed aside the sweeping
crowd in a search for Beauty and got off on High
Street. She tried a place with flashing lights and, keeping

an open mind, tasted actual brewed liquor. She said goodbye
to her shell and decided to live it up a little.
She was in charge now — she would tell them all; she could defy

all of society, wait for the world to whittle
away into nothing. She was going to read what she wanted
and say what she wanted — a noncommittal

life to everyone but herself. Undaunted,
she embraced life and ran around town,
quitted the act of reclusive-drama queen-ghost, and haunted

boldly all those who crossed her path. Around
certain streets, she was a legend — her eyes inciting
fear for many, and most keenly avoided her newfound

wrath. She was queen until a woman, exciting
feelings in her once forgotten, offered her a crude
bouquet of violets. Emily recalled the inviting

search for Beauty and smashed the plentitude for rudely
continuing its existence. Beauty had not stopped
for her death, but crawled bravely

onward. Her imaginary bubble was popped,
the safety of her cruel alabaster chambers collapsed,
and, as mankind moved onward, her power was cropped.

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