1260: A Founding | Margaret Atwood
"A Founding"
Margaret Atwood
He left himself on my doorstep,
abandoned in the shabby
basket of his own ribs.
My heart wept custard:
I took him in.
Warmed in the kitchen,
he swelled, absorbing.
He will not leave,
I am afraid to move him.
What if I should feed him?
He never talks. He sits
in the middle of the kitchen floor
staring at the bright scars
traced on his body, fascinated.
At first
I thought that they were notched
on him by pain
but now I see
that they are only the coloured pictures
of places he once
lived, and thinks
that no-one else has ever been.
Margaret Atwood
He left himself on my doorstep,
abandoned in the shabby
basket of his own ribs.
My heart wept custard:
I took him in.
Warmed in the kitchen,
he swelled, absorbing.
He will not leave,
I am afraid to move him.
What if I should feed him?
He never talks. He sits
in the middle of the kitchen floor
staring at the bright scars
traced on his body, fascinated.
At first
I thought that they were notched
on him by pain
but now I see
that they are only the coloured pictures
of places he once
lived, and thinks
that no-one else has ever been.