My teacher pronounces it po-em
like Edgar-Allan and Emily’s lovechild—
conceived by passionate creaks
in the bed above the floorboards,
then birthed without a proper name.
When she grows up, will she wonder
why her parents left her on the doorstep?
Or as she is pressed against the table
by the orphanage’s overseer, will she even care
who wrote her into such an existence?
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