To Charlotte Bronte

To Charlotte Bronte

You wrote my favorite book.

But would you have liked me -

tall, heavy, dark-haired

Like the painting of Cleopatra

That you scorned,

With eyes dark as coals

And something of a temper?

I would have loved to write

In tiny letters, as you did:

Spare, carefully inked in.

But my handwriting, when legible,

Tends to flourish-ridden and grand.

I visited both Haworth and Brussels,

Your home and your nemesis.

The wind screamed wonderfully

In Haworth, and shivered

Through less-than-heated rooms.

But I had a wonderful cream tea

In  town.

In Brussels

The plaque with your name

Had been removed,

But the map still showed

The school.

Now a film center,

It still bore the marks

Of the garden,

The forbidden alley

And the spy casement.

As I stood there,

The school swam

Like a bottled genie

Into the terrace

And vanquished the film center.

I could hear whispers and laughter

In French and Flemish

And see you as you wrote

In loneliness, pride and longing

To the brilliant, cynical professeur

Who broke your heart.

Rain flew down in gusts.

One hundred fifty years

hence, and the park

was still wide-pathed

and quiet.

The church you prayed in

Still echoed your words:

“Mon pere, je suis Protestante.”

I, a Jew, repeated them

As if to summon you.

What would you have thought?

Would the exchange

Have ended in friendship?

Or would you have looked,

Sneered and walked on?

A tall man with a sign

Sat on the steps.

He needed money.

I palmed a five-franc bill

Into his hat,

And wondered

If you would have done

The same.