The Shadow Voice by Margaret Atwood

My shadow said to me:

what is the matter


Isn't the moon warm

enough for you

why do you need

the blanket of another body

 
Whose kiss is moss

 
Around the picnic tables

The bright pink hands held sandwiches

crumbled by distance. Flies crawl

over the sweet instant

 
You know what is in these blankets

 
The trees outside are bending with

children shooting guns. Leave

them alone. They are playing

games of their own.

 
I give water, I give clean crusts

 
Aren't there enough words

flowing in your veins

to keep you going.