Susan's Response (1861) to Emily's Poem 84 (1859)

Alyssa Witvoet | Spring 2022

Her breast is fit for pearls, 
But I was not a “Diver” — 

If you are a diver, tie me to your wrist. Twine my palm to the creases in your knuckles, drag it through the muck you are scouring, again and again find the priceless pleasure you name. My absence may have muddled your heart, yet I am begging, pleading, beseeching your tender forgiveness. Let my seclusion dissolve as salt in the water dampening your skin. These months have been spent on the ocean floor, consumed by its weighted depth. Repetition of your ever-present language gradually taught me how I must extract my body from cumbersome concealment; these countless lyrics are a reminder—I can swim. The salt on your skin kisses my tongue, if you will allow it to. If you were to float upon me, my ebbs and flows might finally crystallize into a coherent continuance. Emily, let us weather my next wave together. 

Her brow is fit for thrones

Does this line still run through your head as it does mine? The unfathomable image of myself in this position, in your eyes, changes me to liquid stone. A contradiction in and of myself, yet your gaze stitches my selves to the page, and each other. I hold paper up to the window, and hope the sunlight will give me understanding. 

But I have not a crest. 

You have always been golden, your luster shining from within. When the sky glints off your skin I am enraptured, as if the spirit of a magpie has taken possession of my soul. I did not create the brightness that freezes you, but I will heat each piece of you—take your ankles and neck and practised hands in mine, press you into myself until we soften, prepared to be forged into one entity. We are made for exactly this, we have chosen to make ourselves into each other. 

Her heart is fit for home — 

I should only hope to be entrusted with your heart, fragile and bare. Our garden, our sanctuary, our endlessly growing creation beckons us home. Yes, our cores must be buried together in the soil, beating as one with the earth. As I plant them, my mind clears peacefully in a way it could not these long years, stealing glances at your upstairs window and knowing your lantern will light my activities in the dead of night. Later, as I collect the fruits hanging ripe and heavy from our reaching limbs, your gaze will protect me from the brightest sun.   

I - a Sparrow - build there
Sweet of twigs and twine

Yes, yes, you, a sparrow—I, still a magpie, collecting all you bring and offering all I have in return. We are birds, we are beings. We are writers, we are lovers, we are loved. I take these truths and knead them into one letter. I will fly to the edge of the earth, to the seaside we belong to, in order to bring you twigs that smell of the salt you so desire. If you gave yourself away, did you see me do the same? Here I am, opening my chest, offering myself to you. I admit, I must admit, I hope you are still

My perennial nest.