Aberdeen (Patreon)

would be a very pretty name for a girl._The village thinks her odd—her mind a turnstile key,She counts the sparrows in her yard, then sets them—one, two—free.A thimble in her pocket—she keeps it for the rain,Threadbare on the elbows, she won’t confess to pain.She talks to autumn pumpkins, walks the furthest lane—Pale marigold in tangled hair, some story left unnamed.A neighbor calls her “lonely”—the milkman says, “unseen”—But I have watched the window blink, and know she must be keen.Her fence collects the blackbirds, her dress collects the sun,She smiles as if the morning’s glass had never come undone.She ties her shoes with daffodils, she signs her name in steam—No letters ever came for her—except, perhaps, in dream.Some say her name’s a compass, a bell beneath the green—A hush before the Sunday bell, the hush that falls between.Aberdeen, the women sing, will wander past the spring—But Aberdeen walks quietly; her heart does not take wing.And if she loves a robin, and if she fears the frost,She cups a brittle syllable, considers what is lost.We watch her from the hydrangeas, our distance always neat—But Aberdeen will always find the wildness in the wheat.The lamp above her windowsill has never burned quite right,She pins her hope to feather ends, she braids her will to light.A dozen summer evenings drift by in wavy lines—Aberdeen still counting—one for hers, and two for mine._but honestly, mimicking Emily Dickinson this closely is the gayest thing I've ever done, and I've done some real gay stuff.