Myself - Chapter three - Part XVII

Inside the house, Emily and sat down in the living room, and Bugsy went into another room to call Helen. The two of us sat looking at each other.

“So…” she said. “How did—Bugsy, is it?—how did Bugsy reveal himself to you?”

“He abducted me from my room at presumed knifepoint.”

“Hmm… that’s… creative… thought not particularly nice.”

“What would you have done if it were you?”

She thought for a moment. “I would have drifted into your bedroom, and hovered around you without talking at all, like a ghost.”

I was impressed. We sat without having anything to say for some time.

I broke the silence. “I have to say, I don’t really ‘get’ your poetry.”

“Oh, it all has to do with society’s oppression of the African American and his struggle to succeed despite institutional racism pervading his world.”

I look at her in shock. I had never seen that in her poetry.

“Oh, wait, I’m sorry. That’s LANGSTON HUGHES. I’m EMILY DICKINSON. My poems are about death, you idiot.”

She was me, alright.

Bugsy walked in. “Helen’s not doing anything tomorrow. Think you can hold over until then?”

“It’s not like I have a broken arm that needs to be set,” Emily said.

“No, you’re a girl,” I said, smirking. “You need help ASAP.”

Bugsy sat down. He looked at me, then he looked at Emily. “Emmy,” he said, “I have to say, I don’t really ‘get’ your poetry.”

She lit up. “What IS it with you? You are me, so shouldn’t you understand it? Is it the 19^th century language? It’s not that complex? Or are guys just too dense to get it?” She was fuming.

I leaned over to Bugsy and whispered, “It’s about death.”

“Ohhh…” he responded.