My contributor copy of Raleigh Review arrived yesterday, & with it a poem I’ve been waiting ages to share with you—a sort of love letter to one of my favorite Victorian women: the long misunderstood Anne Brontë.
When I try to define, describe, or in any way come to terms with what it means to inhabit the world as a woman, the first thing that comes into my mind is nearly always the sense of mandated silence; of being muzzled; of having, so to speak, no mouth to speak of.