Emily Dickinson
Meget spinkel. Meget liten.
Alltid sirlig kledd i hvitt.
Gjennom huset trippet hennes
veloppdragne pikeskritt.
Tørket støv og vannet blomster
med små travle husmorhender.
Bakte brød. Gikk tur i parken,
og skrev brev til slekt og venner.
Kjærlig søster. Lydig datter.
Slik var dagens dukkelek.
Men den skjulte ilden herjet.
Og det stumme skriket skrek.
Og bak jomfruburets låste
dør og lette blondekapper
lå en fremmed ingen kjente.
Altfor ensom. Altfor tapper.
Lå en kald kirurg og lyttet
til sin egen nakne smerte.
Og mens puten kvalte skriket,
obduserte hun sitt hjerte.
Emily Dickinson
Very slender. Very tiny.
Always neatly dressed in white.
Through the house she used to trip with
girl-like steps well-bred and light.
Wiped off dust and watered flowers
with small busy housewife hands.
Baked bread. In the park went walking,
wrote to family and friends.
Loving sister. Duteous daughter.
Doll-play was her daily fare.
But the hidden fire ravaged.
And the silent scream did tear.
And behind the locked door of her
girl’s room and her bonnets’ lace
lay a stranger known to no one.
All too lonely. All too brave.
Lay a surgeon listening coldly
to her naked pain apart.
And while cushions choked her screaming,
she dissected her own heart.
For information on photographs of Emily Dickenson, go to here.
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