Quills at Dawn

Lorraine McArdle

You wouldn’t be his type anyway

Emily said, in a bit of a huff

because I said her Heathcliff

was a right old navel-gazer,

though I had to confess

I did have a considerable crush

on the gothic passion of it all.

Charlotte was looking smug because

I professed to having a thing for Rochester,

more banter than muscular, I protested,

but she wasn’t having any of it

ranting about the scene that got cut,

you know the one she says, frothing at the mouth,

the one where he whips his shirt off.

Anne quietly reminded me that his first wife

would be trapped in the attic yet

if she hadn’t the wit to set fire to the gaff,

surmising that her Gilbert Markham

had more acres of impressive road frontage

than the other two latchicos put together,

and boasted a much finer herd of swine.

That was when it all kicked off.

Emily smashed her bottle of Newkie Brown

on the side of the table, holding

the jagged edge to Charlotte’s throat.

Charlotte decked her one sending

Emily flying across the oak counter,

smashing glasses and spilling bitter.

For a moment silence hung in the alehouse,

the air heavy with the scent of roasted hops,

pockmarked only by the odd consumptive cough,

while Emily wiped blood from her busted lip.

But then Anne opened her gob again just to stir things up,

telling all and sundry that she would sell more books.

After that, there was no going back.

LORRAINE McARDLE’s poetry is widely published across Ireland and the UK and she is working towards a first collection. Recent awards include Listowel Writer’s Week Poetry Collection Prize, as well as being a finalist in Mslexia’s Poetry Competition and the Fool For Poetry Chapbook Competition.