Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration. - Carl Sandburg
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Margaret Atwood - Heart
Some people sell their blood. You sell your heart. It was either that or the soul. The hard part is getting the damn thing out. A kind of twisting motion, like shucking an oyster, your spine a wrist, and then, hup! it's in your mouth. You turn yourself partially inside out like a sea anemone coughing a pebble. There's a broken plop, the racket of fish guts into a pail, and there it is, a huge glistening deep-red clot of the still-alive past, whole on the plate. It gets passed around. It's slippery. It gets dropped, but also tasted. Too coarse, says one. Too salty. Too sour, says another, making a face. Each one is an instant gourmet, and you stand listening to all this in the corner, like a newly hired waiter, your diffident, skilful hand on the wound hidden deep in your shirt and chest, shyly, heartless.