lauramcphee: Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes (Billy Collins) First, her tippet made of tulle,easily lifted off her shoulders and laidon the back of a wooden chair.  And her bonnet,the bow undone with a light forward pull.  Then the long white dress, a morecomplicated matter with mother-of-pearlbuttons down the back,so tiny and numerous that it takes foreverbefore my hands can part the fabric,like a swimmer’s dividing water,and slip inside.  You will want to know that she was standingby an open window in an upstairs bedroom,motionless, a little wide-eyed,looking out at the orchard below,the white dress puddled at her feeton the wide-board, hardwood floor.  The complexity of women’s undergarmentsin nineteenth-century Americais not to be waved off,and I proceeded like a polar explorerthrough clips, clasps, and moorings,catches, straps, and whalebone stays,sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.  Later, I wrote in a notebookit was like riding a swan into the night,but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,how her hair tumbled free of its pins,how there were sudden dashes whenever we spoke.  What I can tell you isit was terribly quiet in Amherstthat Sabbath afternoon,nothing but a carriage passing the house,a fly buzzing in a windowpane.  So I could plainly hear her inhalewhen I undid the very tophook-and-eye fastener of her corset  and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,the way some readers sigh when they realizethat Hope has feathers,that reason is a plank,that life is a loaded gunthat looks right at you with a yellow eye.  . [Image: Collo di donna, 1950 (Federico Vender)]
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lauramcphee:

Taking Off Emily Dickinson’s Clothes 
(Billy Collins)

First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair. 
And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull. 

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer’s dividing water,
and slip inside. 

You will want to know 
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor. 

The complexity of women’s undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness. 

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes 
whenever we spoke. 

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane. 

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset 

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize
that Hope has feathers,
that reason is a plank,
that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye. 

.

[Image: Collo di donna, 1950 (Federico Vender)]