The Self-Martyred Soul,                                                     Taylor Driggers

in response to Henry Wallis’s Chatterton

Shun the open window in
cool shrinking blue under
red flame, turn
towards the worn-
wood frame they set
you in; your eyes,
loose-shut like a tranquil
assurance that no one,
no one is there,
hardly know the difference now.
Beside you, the cast-off scarlet
mantle lies flung in a fury
over the nearest chair,
and your head empties
into a basket
brimming over with
paper torn to shreds,
already laden with ink that
burst from your brain
like tears—could these have borne
the burden much longer?