we saw, it will never exist, split by the wind and bending down
like that again. What will push out of the earth
later, making it summer, will not be
grass, leaves, repetition, there will
have to be other words. When my
eyes close language vanishes. The cat
with the divided face, half black half orange
nests in my scruffy fur coat, I drink tea,
fingers curved around the cup, impossible
to duplicate these flavours. The table
and freak plates glow softly, consuming themselves,
I look out at you and you occur
in this winter kitchen, random as trees or sentences,
entering me, fading like them, in time you will disappear
but the way you dance by yourself
on the tile floor to a worn song, flat and mournful,
so delighted, spoon waved in one hand, wisps of roughened hair
sticking up from your head, it's your surprised
body, pleasure I like. I can even say it,
though only once and it won't
last: I want this. I want
this.
- Margaret Atwood.
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