Margaret Atwood Poems

He was the sort of man
who wouldn't hurt a fly.
Many flies are now alive
while he is not.
...

Gone are the days
when you could walk on water.
When you could walk.
...

I'm thinking about you. What else can I say?
The palm trees on the reverse
are a delusion; so is the pink sand.
What we have are the usual
...

The rest of us watch from beyond the fence
as the woman moves with her jagged stride
into her pain as if into a slow race.
We see her body in motion
...

Starspangled cowboy
sauntering out of the almost-
silly West, on your face
a porcelain grin,
...

What should we have taken
with us? We never could decide
on that; or what to wear,
or at what time of
...

In restaurants we argue
over which of us will pay for your funeral
...

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
...

He, who navigated with success
the dangerous river of his own birth
once more set forth
...