Post-Valentine's Day Sestina

Dear Emily Dickinson,

Here in Brookline, Massachusetts, I think all nightof time—lost time—of my college days in Amherstwhen I acted as if I scarcely knew your name.Instead of studying your slants and dashes, I'd cryand smile, dash to frat parties with some man mdash;even learned beer-drinking. Oh, I had them,

those wild nights—you spoke of themwell—did my rowing on the Connecticut River (not at night)collected scores of trinkets. For you, each manwas more ethereal. Your life in Amherst,some call it "confined," caused you to cast off mimicryand we're richer for it. Your name

for love's obscure, volcanic, natural. To nameyou, Emily—woman, poet—most readers—I was among them,failed to recognize your courage. I could cry.In college, on Parents' Weekend—Saturday night—guess what play we went to? The Belle of Amherst—they insisted, not I. Julie Harris in her one-womanmasterpiece. But how interested was I? Some manstood me up: the son of a woman poet I'll not name.After the show, disheartened, I walked through Amherst with my parents, glad to leave themat Lord Jeffery's Inn. But that was just one nightof mine. Soon, with my least audible cry,

I gathered courage, heard another's mating cryand managed to fall in love right. What a man!This one transported me away, one snowy January night,from my single bed to Chi Psi—that frat I'll name,since I moved in for two years among them:the cool, tough boys. "First Woman of Amherst

Breaks the Frat Barrier!" my imaginary AmherstStudent headline read. But you 'd never make such a cry,remained faithful to your art, didn't traffic with themin the usual manner. Besides your father, more than one man—and one woman influenced you. Did your poems nameyour deepest passions? Yes and no. Good night

to those lovely Amherst days and nights when one man,my first lover, caused me to cry his name.I knew them, Emily, too. O! for just one wild night!