75: Emily Dickinson

Because I could not sell a knife
My mother bought a gift
For my father from my catalog—
An ego-saving grift.

The knife was true and worthy—
Not to blame for what occurred—
The worthless one was I alone,
My actions all absurd.

The knife came in as I went out
To preach in foreign land—
Impatient I unpacked it,
And weighed it in my hand.

“Behold the blade,” I crowed, “how sharp—
But safe,” I said with calm.
“The lock prevents an accident—“
And there I rent my palm.

We mopped me up with napkins—
We wrapped me up in gauze—
Next year I would sell pastries,
No more martyr to this cause.