Mark Fogarty
WUTHERING
The best word I’ve come up with to explain myself
Is “wuthering.” And I don’t know what it means.
Out on the wildass moors, the spectral hound,
The ghost of passion, the sweet-natured vets.
Othello, ready for the hard-won Desdemona
To be swiped away by the prodding Iago.
Clueless. Except I wouldn’t kill her.
I’d check the train schedule for her.
Heathcliffe, it’s me, Cathy
I’m coming home now
So co-o-old, let me in your window.
Wasn’t it Heathcliffe out on the moors
And Cathy waiting at the window?
I guess it doesn’t matter. What’s the difference
Between men and women anyway?
An ounce or two of estrogen, testosterone.
A few inches out, a few inches in.
Kate was too dramatically beautiful even for me.
They model-posed her with her legs wide open on the cover.
I figured, if they want me to check out her snatch
Then her voice can’t be any good.
I can sit by the fire, drinking coffee
With no use for the empty moors.
For all my wuthering,
I can’t sit in an empty theater.
Kate’s voice was, though, good. A little mad, maybe.
The Irish came to the Caribbean, too,
Indentured servants, and stayed
For the green water and the lack of fog.
My brother told me about one of them with our name,
A captain in the Royal Navy,
Went down with his ship fighting the Nazis.
Well done, cousin, on those wuthering waves.
—Lyrics from “Wuthering Heights” by Kate Bush, from The Kick Inside (1978).
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