470

I am alive—I guess
The Branches on my Hand
Are full of Morning Glory
And at my finger's end

The Carmine—tingles warm
And if I hold a Glass
Across my Mouth—it blurs it
Physician's—proof of Breath

I am alive—because
I am not in a Room
The Parlor—Commonly—it is
So Visitors may come

And lean—and view it sidewise
And add "How cold—it grew"
And "Was it conscious—when it stepped
In Immortality?"

I am alive—because
I do not own a House
Entitled to myself—precise
And fitting no one else
And marked my Girlhood's name
So Visitors may know
Which Door is mine—and not