Margaret Atwood

Carrying Food Home in Winter

I walk uphill through the snow hard going brown paper bag of groceries balanced low on my stomach, heavy, my arms stretching to hold it turn all tendon. Do we need this paper bag my love, do we need this bulk of peels and cores, do we need these bottles, these roots and bits of cardboard to keep us floating as on a raft above the snow I sink through? The skin creates islands of warmth in winter, in summer islands of coolness. The mouth performs a similar deception. I say I will transform this egg into a muscle this bottle into an act of love This onion will become a motion this grapefruit will become a thought.

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