Margaret Atwood

The Shadow Voice

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.

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