a poem some days (exceptindreams) wrote,
a poem some days

1807: The Shadow Voice | Margaret Atwood

"The Shadow Voice"
Margaret Atwood

My shadow said to me:
what is the matter

Isn't the moon warm
enough for you
why do you need
the blanket of another body

Whose kiss is moss

Around the picnic tables
The bright pink hands held sandwiches
crumbled by distance. Flies crawl
over the sweet instant

You know what is in these blankets

The trees outside are bending with
children shooting guns. Leave
them alone. They are playing
games of their own.

I give water, I give clean crusts

Aren't there enough words
flowing in your veins
to keep you going.

Or is it his/standing beside me that I remember, ready to remind me that what felt/crazy was only a matter of degree, my footing on that mountain easily/recovered by/reaching my hand out to his as he balanced, just a few steps/ahead, impossibly steady before me?
Tags: alison townsend, margaret atwood

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