Dressing Emily Dickinson

I was not alarmed to find she needed help with the process.

I began with her nineteenth-century undergarments,
picking them up from the floor
where they had been carelessly tossed aside.

The oceans of clasps, pins, catches, and straps
seemed so unthinkable to me,
that regardless of how many times I analyzed them,
and no matter my angle of perspective,
I was completely powerless to ascertain their meaning.
I felt as if I would drown in this sea of confusion,
sinking slowly through the unknown world of
meaningless complexity.

And Ms. Dickinson refused to be of any help.

In the end I was forced to fit her in them
whatever way seemed proper,
and then to tie them in the back
with the skill and prowess
of a young man who never earned his Eagle Scout.
When I had finished, I watched her hair flow over her backside—
a discombobulated French braid
floating on my sea of double half-hitches.

Next came the corset, being so small
that I wondered how to fit her in it.
I fidgeted uncomfortably for a while,
debating if perhaps I should just toss it aside
Yet when I finally made the attempt
she slipped inside like a camel through a needle’s eye
(which would have surprised me less).
She produced an audible gasp as I tightened the straps
and secured the fastener at the top.

Finally she was contained,
which somehow made me breathe more easily.

Her dress, bonnet, and tippet
were all similar ordeals to be endured.
I softly cursed the fashion,
nothing more than hand-spun cotton,
and I wished it would unravel.

When finally I was finished
I collapsed in a nearby upholstered chair,
emotionally and physically drained
from so much pulling, forcing, and straining.
She seemed none the worse for it,
standing like a statue near the window as if,
though dressed,
she still had no good reason to remove herself
from a position of nothingness—

While I, too tired to move,
involuntarily fell asleep in my seat
and dreamt of putting double knots in her corset,
should I ever be forced to dress her again.