The Death of the Author
or
My class wondered if
We should kill the author.
And I found it odd
This favorability of the work of
Their own minds
Over the one who wrote it.
They searched for latent content
In the author’s words
Like surgeons trying to extract
Literature, from its roots
Firmly planted
In origin.
Do not shoot the author.
Instead,
Plant a flower
By her grave.
Instead,
Walk the trail
That connects her words
To the source.
The source that stirred her
Hands, to write
The inexplicable,
The mystery of
The workings of
This human mind
You will never find it.
It doesn’t matter.
They saw the author
While she was weak and said
“Go back to sleep,
Little darling.”
Like the husband,
Like the physicians
Who did not heed their clients.
Her words
Are not floating.
They blossomed
From her brain.
They were born
From her mind,
A mind
Of such strength
The 18th century men were blind to it
Until it was too late,
Until too many women
Had gone mad
Believing them.
When I start my sentence
“The author expresses...”
I will not delete it.
Her voice, her words,
Kept her alive because
They were the only thing that was hers
Her words
Shot out of her pen
From isolation and struck
The injustices
From the angle
Where they could expose
And history heard
Her words
And we still
Wonder
If we should hear them
As they were intended.
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