Margaret Atwood

Ottawa, Ontario

The Rest

Rating: 3.2
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
but hear no sounds, or we hear
sounds but no language; or we know
it is not a language we know
yet. We can see her clearly
but for her it is running in black smoke.
The cluster of cells in her swelling
like porridge boiling, and bursting,
like grapes, we think. Or we think of
explosions in mud; but we know nothing.
All around us the trees
and the grasses light up with forgiveness,
so green and at this time
of the year healthy.
We would like to call something
out to her. Some form of cheering.
There is pain but no arrival at anything.
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COMMENTS
Dr Antony Theodore 01 March 2020
The cluster of cells in her swelling like porridge boiling, and bursting, like grapes, we think. Or we think of explosions in mud; a very fine poem. tony
0 0 Reply
Dr Antony Theodore 01 March 2019
We see her body in motion but hear no sounds, or we hear sounds but no language; or we know it is not a language we know yet. a great poem indeed. tony
0 0 Reply
Paresh Chakra 06 December 2018
The rest is a very good poem
0 0 Reply

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