poematry

Up
    Margaret Atwood

    You wake up filled with dread.
    There seems no reason for it.
    Morning light sifts through the window,
    there is birdsong,
    you can’t get out of bed.

    It’s something about the crumpled sheets
    hanging over the edge like jungle
    foliage, the terry slippers gaping
    their dark pink mouths for your feet,
    the unseen breakfast— some of it
    in the refrigerator you do not dare
    to open— you will not dare to eat.

    What prevents you? The future. The future tense,
    immense as outer space.
    You could get lost there.
    No. Nothing so simple. The past, its density
    and drowned events pressing you down,
    like sea water, like gelatin
    filling your lungs instead of air.

    Forget all that and let’s get up.
    Try moving your arm.
    Try moving your head.
    Pretend the house is on fire
    and you must run or burn.
    No, that one’s useless.
    It’s never worked before.

    Where is it coming from, this echo,
    this huge No that surrounds you,
    silent as the folds of the yellow
    curtains, mute as the cheerful

    Mexican bowl with its cargo
    of mummified flowers?
    (You chose the colours of the sun,
    not the dried neutrals of shadow.
    God knows you’ve tried.)

    Now here’s a good one:
    you’re lying on your deathbed.
    You have one hour to live.
    Who is it, exactly, you have needed
    all these years to forgive?