I've always appreciated great writing. I read voraciously, though mostly to learn how the story ends, not for the writing. Every once in a while, I stop to savor the way the words are put together. This poem reminded me of some of the people I've "met" through blogging.
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 slithery. 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,
-Margaret Atwood, from The Door
There's another I'll share in a few days.
Last night I had too much wine. And threw things, and tried to hit (him) (all after our daughter was safely tucked away). I don't know how to deal with anger. I don't do emotion very well, and anger not at all. I don't know how to be angry. So I don't want to be angry.