The Only Portrait of Emily Dickinson

The straight neck held up out of the lace is bound with a black velvet band. She holds her mouth the way she chooses, the full underlip constrained by a small muscle. She doesn’t blink or look aside, although her left eye is considering a slant. She would smile if she had time, but right now there is composure to be invented. She stares at the photographer. The black crepe settles. Emerging from the sleeve, a shapely hand holds out a white, translucent blossom. “They always say things which embarrass my dog,” she tells the photographer. She is amused, but not as much as he’d like.