The Trouble with Emily Dickinson by Ken McKowen

time.”
    “That must have been hard back then,” Kendal
said. “In those days most women gave up their dreams and ambitions
to be housewives.”
    JJ’s head bobbed in agreement, “Exactly. And
in this poem, Finch makes it clear to her lover that she has no
such plan in mind. She writes, ‘Judge not my passion, but my want
of skill. Many love well, but express it ill.’ See, she wants him
to know that though she is driven, and, like you said, has her own
dreams, but at the same time, that doesn’t mean she can’t love him
with all that she has. In fact, she loves him more fully than some
women who have no ambition at all.”
    “Wow,” said Kendal. “That’s pretty
intense.”
    “Yeah, it is.”
    Kendal flinched. “I hope I didn’t sound like
a ditsy cheerleader just then.”
    “You didn’t at all. Just don’t start saying
totally every other sentence.”
    Kendal flipped back her hair. “This poem is
like, totally awesome.”
    JJ nudged her shoulder, “Cute.”
    “You’re not at all what I thought you were,”
said Kendal.
    “What did you think?”
    “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know what to
expect.”
    “I understand,” said JJ. “When I found out I
was tutoring you, I didn’t know what to expect either. All I knew
was that you were popular and last year’s homecoming queen.”
    “And that I was probably just like all the
other cheerleaders.”
    “Maybe at first,” said JJ. “But you’re not.
You’re different.”
    “Different, how?”
    JJ shrugged. “You just are.”
    They continued to regard one another, until
JJ’s knee once again began to shake involuntarily. “I’ll be right
back,” she said, standing up quickly.
    As she pushed her chair back from the table,
she accidentally knocked over her bag, which had been resting on
the floor. Her journal spilled out, and she tripped over it.
    “Whoops,” JJ said, feeling nervous and
clumsy. She plucked up the journal and set it on the table before
she walked away.
    Kendal eyeballed the journal. It looked
pretty beat up, the edges frayed and the binding worn. She could
feel her famous liquid curiosity pumping through her veins.
    Just one quick peek, she thought. Then she’d
set it right back down. She reached for the journal, and flipped it
open close to the middle. Her eyes quickly scanned the words
scribbled across the page. It appeared to be a poem titled First
Kiss.
    She sneaked a peek to make sure JJ wasn’t
anywhere in sight before she began to read with reckless
abandon.
     
    Darkness looms
    I cannot see
    I feel your breath upon my skin
    Sparking a nervous warmth
    I reach for you
    Sliding my palm across your cheek
    So softly, afraid you’ll break
    Whispers reach my insides
    Pulling them into knots
    My flesh trembles
    With each caress
    Until your lips find mine
    Timid at first touch
    Growing hungry with each kiss
    My mind races
    No clear thoughts, just dizziness
    Into you I slowly melt

    The images were so vivid, so real, that
Kendal could feel the tingle on her skin, just as if she were the
person in the poem. She had to read it again. She was about halfway
through when she felt someone leaning over her. She quickly set the
book down onto the table, and then shook her head
apologetically.
    “I’m sorry. Your journal was just lying
there, and I was wondering if it was poetry or something. I swear I
wouldn’t have read it if I’d known it was personal or—“
    She stopped talking as soon as she looked up.
Kyan Stevens, who she now thought of as Kyan the couch monster, was
standing next to her chair, looming over her like some creepy,
ominous shadow. Kendal could feel his supposedly innocent brown
eyes examining her thoroughly from head to toe.
    “Hey,” he said with an overconfident grin.
“Christine said you were here.”
    “Christine? Really?” Kendal cursed her
roommate under her breath. “Did she mention I had a tutoring
session?”
    “No. She just said you were in the library
pretending to study.”
    Kyan