I know why Emily went indoors,
why she kneeded hot yeast like flesh,
probing with her rapid hands, tense and stretch.
I know why she chose the kitchen window
view for the passing fair, dusk til dawn.
Or midday labor - the neighbor’s funeral.
I know why she kept to herself, the myth
of Amherst, sacrificing paradise
for the white heat, her mute crucifixion.