by Andrea Potos
TO EMILY BRONTE
Eleven years old and sunk in the red velveteen blanketing the Yorkshire moors. Heathcliff around him, how tall and alarmingly At Catherine’s grave he cried, you wrote:
chair at the Fox Bay Theater, I absorbed
the raw sculpture of Penistone Crag,
bracken and gorse, the peat
with his sea-green eyes, black cape swirled
handsome he looked.
I cannot live without my life,
desire held hostage in his eyes,
blanketing the Yorkshire moors. Heathcliff
around him, how tall and alarmingly
At Catherine’s grave he cried, you wrote:
Years later, I return to your words;
travel to the stone-
flagged floors of your home;
your desk-box saved under glass,
its lining worn, purple velvet
splotched with red sealing wax.
Walking the rocky footpath towards swells
of purple heather, I remember the words
of the local stationer who saw you
returning one evening: her countenance was lit up
by a divine light. I imagine
hear your skin
brush mine, whisper what you know:
the silence, the stars
that burn through the page.
Hone the hours to their core--you might have said--
wind and poem, passion and moor.
-Originally appeared in Poetry East.