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.