• Alexandra Lewis

Erasure from Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights




Freakish willingness arouses

raw quality nostalgia.


Amusement gave me the first hint.


Chronology breaks down. Born, dies,

ill, ill, removed: idiosyncratic.

Attends, joins, once again returns.

Regularizing, censoring.

Saga breaks down.


(Let me advise you, let me plot

to introduce you to explicit detail)




Notice pleasure –

stimulus - pleasure -

show each other what we wrote.


Ambiguous, Christian, women;

the weapon. Not true praise: hard work.


Zest obtruded. Hard refusal.

Querulous sympathies

touched the wall.


Prepare our minds:

(Preface this; Notice that;)

What more shall I unbend?


Demon life – Afreet –

If the result be attractive?

Blooming close.


Who is coward now?




The colours of the rainbow resemble

their tongues. Black eyes; blue

conversation Throttler.


Execute intention,

tarnish and dust.


Doleful intervals. Direct me

to self-respect. Obey your lock,

your bolt; omit the look


double-edged spring knife!

That great tempter, to

Thwart, Kill, Fight,

Love: Instrument of Horror.


I’ll make the porridge’- out of habit.

I should proxy

I hate

I wretch

I shall expect


           what rough beast? Not a foliage,

           but flint, rock. Devil’s spies.

           Arm me at the window for

           zealous fevered hammering;

           rappings and counter-rappings.


           A shower of my blood-drops ghosts the bog.


           Dark track beneath the lug-hole.

           Blade thrown in, those hands,

           and back again. Constrict. Release.

           Weary of hanging, I’d stretch

           that artery, myself,

           across the restless grave;

           embalm my own heart

           laughing reckless as a dog.



Nerves pinched tight for the cut.

                                                      I must away.

Slit. Pain, flow. Rattle; twitch.


                                                      Summons the blot.

Out, Gimmerton bell, Out.

                                                      Run, wild hares.



I was not aware how openly I grieved.