Then Interposed a Fly To Emily Dickinson Since I am Emily’s buzzing fly, I want to say—yes, I am a god— gold, iridescent, swiveling eyes. Often, I’ve watched Emily in her dreary room, lying on her back, in funereal black, arms crossed over her heart, eyes closed, imagining her death and transcendence, relishing the sobbing scene and the drama of it all. Let me tell you, I’m the one battering myself at the window, the barrier, hoping to fly free from this sticky tomb, to the other side ablaze with light, fragrant as a dewy morning, welcoming as a blue…