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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=351282" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">First, her tippet made of tulle, <br>easily lifted off her shoulders and laid<br>on the back of a wooden chair. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And her bonnet, <br>the bow undone with a light forward pull. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then the long white dress, a more<br>complicated matter with mother-of-pearl<br>buttons down the back, <br>so tiny and numerous that it takes forever<br>before my hands can part the fabric, <br>like a swimmer's dividing water, <br>and slip inside. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You will want to know <br>that she was standing<br>by an open window in an upstairs bedroom, <br>motionless, a little wide-eyed, <br>looking out at the orchard below, <br>the white dress puddled at her feet<br>on the wide-board, hardwood floor. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The complexity of women's undergarments<br>in nineteenth-century America<br>is not to be waved off, <br>and I proceeded like a polar explorer<br>through clips, clasps, and moorings, <br>catches, straps, and whalebone stays, <br>sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Later, I wrote in a notebook<br>it was like riding a swan into the night, <br>but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -<br>the way she closed her eyes to the orchard, <br>how her hair tumbled free of its pins, <br>how there were sudden dashes <br>whenever we spoke. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What I can tell you is<br>it was terribly quiet in Amherst<br>that Sabbath afternoon, <br>nothing but a carriage passing the house, <br>a fly buzzing in a windowpane. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So I could plainly hear her inhale<br>when I undid the very top<br>hook-and-eye fastener of her corset </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed, <br>the way some readers sigh when they realize<br>that Hope has feathers, <br>that reason is a plank, <br>that life is a loaded gun<br>that looks right at you with a yellow eye.			</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Billy+Collins">Billy Collins</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=351282" data-title="Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes de Billy Collins" data-description="First, her tippet made of tulle, 
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair. 

And her bonnet, 
the bow undone with a light forward pull. 

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
butt..."></div>
</div>
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