Emily Dickinson's Herbarium

--Chelsea Woodard

       

Wide-lobed threes of trillium leaves taped

and labeled, trifoliate veins, wrinkles dried

and finite as her penciled marks beneath.

My hands are attuned to the weight of pages pressed

long on such fragile anatomies—pistils of lilies,

cowslip petals, delphinium halos and bright spikes

of iris, ovaries and ovules tenderly picked,

patterned and splayed. I know the body

of desire could fill a book and still spill

out. It isn't a question of will, or killing

for pleasure, for beauty that's flattened and lasts past

the end of one season, where we've lived in bloom

and hate to leave. Late February casts

its defeatist light and I quit this reliquary now, this room.