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Emily Dickinson, translated by Liv Wenger

Very fragile. Very little.
Always correctly dressed in white.
Through the house her footsteps
sounded disciplined and so polite.

Dusting, watering flowers too,
with busy, little housewife's hands.
Baking bread. Walking in the park,
writing letters to family and friends.

Loving sister. Obedient daughter.
A daily game with dolls and house.
But deep inside were fires flaring
as the silent screams arose.

Behind locked doors of maiden's chambers
with embroideries and lace
lay a stranger, known to no one.
Much too lonely. Much too brave.

She's like a cold, unfeeling surgeon
listening to her naked pain.
As her pillow hindered screaming
while doing autopsy on her own brain.

Translated by Liv Wenger

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