Caricamento in corso...

The Deaths of the Other Children

The body dies
 
little by little
 
the body buries itself
 
joins itself
to the loosened mind, to the black–
berries and thistles, running in a
thorny wind
over the shallow
foundations of our former houses,
dim hollows now in the sandy soil
 
Did I spend all those years
building up this edifice
my composite
self, this crumbling hovel?
 
My arms, my eyes, my grieving
words, my disintegrated children
 
Everywhere I walk, along
the overgrowing paths, my skirt
tugged at by the spreading briers
 
they catch at my heels with their fingers
Altre opere di Margaret Atwood ...



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