Eva Gonzalés, Early Wakening, c. 1877/78

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.