I am alive—I guess

I am alive—I guess

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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