Andrea Potos

 

 

AT THE MALL CINEPLEX

 

Herded into the narrow aisles,

I can’t help thinking of the Fox-Bay theater

on long Saturday afternoons;

the high school kids in burgundy blazers

ushering us into the hushed generous darkness

smelling of spilled popcorn

and thrumming with the promise

of a double feature, permission

to empty our boxes of Milk Duds

and JuJu Bees, our Good ‘n Plenty

and tall cups of Hi-C,

the dark velvet drapery rolling open,

maneuvered by careful, invisible hands,

while far away on the walls-- the relief sculptures

of gnarled, windswept trees,

cliffs where a heroine might perch

awaiting her story.

 

CHARLOTTE BRONTË, STUDENT

Roe Head School, 1831

 

When I arrived, they eyed me queerly,

these daughters of wealthy locals.

Oh, I could not blame them-- me with

spectacles and old woman’s dress,

unmistakable tinge of Irish on my tongue.

 

I offered them poetry, my zeal

for drawing, those subjects most females

are not given to learn:

geography, history, grammar,

French verbs;

such copious, joyful copying

of classical heads and hands!

 

Papa says I must meet my future armed.

I memorize Mangall’s Historical

and Miscellaneous Questions, for it is the latter

that calls to me--

what we are not given to know,

what cannot be reduced--

woman’s mind

bursting the bounds of breads and puddings,

of embroidering collars and bags.

 

Our website uses cookies to enhance your experience. By continuing to use our site, or clicking "Continue", you are agreeing to our privacy policy.
Our website uses cookies to enhance your experience. By continuing to use our site, or clicking "Continue", you are agreeing to our privacy policy.
Continue Privacy Policy