When Emily abandoned schoolwork, she
Assumed the baking in her family home.
She turned away from the formality
Of thinking of philosophers. Her dome
Became the kitchen ceiling. Still, the view
Outside that house took in the graveyard stones
Of Amherst death. At eighteen, then, she knew
The truth. She knew that death and life are groans
No matter how much yeast we add. If sun
Shone on the cemetery, it was dark,
And hard, “forbidding,” noted down by one
Of Amherst’s ministers. Her sight was stark.
Prophetic, whimsical, or fey, profound,
We write against a leavened graveyard ground.
