Emily Shore 1819-1839

She'd been coughing up blood
 Since the dogwoods bloomed
 Seventeen that spring
 And confined to her room
 At night her heart
 Pounded holes in her chest
 Death, like a bird
 Was building its nest
 She'd laughed at the graveyard
 On one sip of wine
 And kept a pet duck
 Till the cat crushed its spine
 But, waltzing one night
 In a red velvet dress
 She noticed a whistling down
 In her chest
 Propped up on pillows
 She watched the snow fall
 Trying to picture
 An end to it all
 By spring there'd be picnics
 And merry-go-rounds
 But she'd be nothing
 But bones in the ground
 And so
 On the last day of her short life
 Emily called for her father's
 Penknife
 She sawed at her head
 Till the floor pooled with hair
 And braided a watch chain for father
 (Mother)
 To wear