Emily Shore 1819-1839

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