This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It's the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn't what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.
Then there's the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
This word is not enough but it will
have to do. It's a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.
Ah, Margaret Atwood. What an interesting lady. She's Canadian, you
know. And I first knew of her not as a poet but as a novelist; she
wrote The Handmaid's Tale, a frightening story of a post-
apocalyptic world (not sci fi! more like history, i think) in which
very few women are fertile. To propagate the species, these fertile
women - Handmaids - are given to upper-class men to have sex with.
A bit shocking but very intriguing. That's the famous one; I've read
another of her novels (the name escapes me at the moment, although I
enjoyed the book) and hold her talent in high regard.