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...the worst thing in the poetic world: poems that try to delve into Emily Dickinson's sex life, or, what is worse, imagine the narrator having sex with Emily Dickinson...I've never seen such a poem succeed. I can't imagine how one could write one that did.
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Aaron N offered this (sort of) challenge on his 'The most cursed poetic genre' thread. I couldn't not rise to it. Whether I've risen very far is debatable. Yep, it's difficult.
Emily
I've been that freezing person, I've felt the snow,
and reached for you before the letting go.
I've sat beside you, telling you they're wrong,
that no bird sang such truth in such strange song.
I've felt the coolness of your kindly Death,
the heat beneath the weave, the catch of breath,
your dry lips touching mine — we both are flawed
and seek for cold perfection and won't be thawed.
Apologies for adding to the genre. I won't be attempting publication...