On Re-reading Madame Bovary at Forty
 
Finally we got to read a book
with a woman’s name––your name.
One of the greats, our teacher said.
 
At fifteen I could not scorn
your far-flung, dark horse longings.
I saw in you a girl like me seeking
 
something big as love.
I didn’t know you were Gustave’s
femme maché, surrogate
 
for bourgeois greed, excuse
for risqué docudrama,
trumped-up thing riffling open
 
for anyone’s leisure.
And did he put some body
English on you! Your dainty
 
feet, your frothy knickers,
your India-ink eyes––
wordless telegraphs
 
vaulting everyone’s crumbling
moral breastwork.
He made you, mistress,
 
delectable, then grilled you
over an open flame
of quick trysts and heartbreak.
 
I blame your tale
on the teller, savant
of armchair critiques
 
and Near East brothels,
Master of Malcontent
who fashioned your tawdry
 
cravings, then upped the dose
to lethal. He even
pulled back the sheets
 
so we could see you
at your death, puddling
like desire’s afterbirth.
 
I will never fault you
for gobbling arsenic
just to get out of that book.