Reading her poetry stirred me up: eye of newt, wing of dove — whatever. It did not matter. I would have fallen in love all the same. Yet, modest, she remained. She said: “In your presence, I can never remember what to do with my letters; I connect consonant to vowel and vowel to consonant, but what comes out is not a language that I can recognize. Emily colored in her lips with pencil-crayons, but always kept inside the lines; she was a “sometimes red, sometimes deep magenta” kind of girl. She wore collared dresses and thimbles on her thumbs, with flushed cheeks that seemed to say: “I know more of hugging and kissing than I care to admit.” In her embrace, I was enveloped with the strength of a nightcap (fit snugly to my crown) and could never remember what to do with my Body.