Dearly: New Poems

by Margaret Atwood

Though over your shoulder there it is, your time laid out like a picnic in the sun, still glowing, although it’s night. Don’t look behind, they say: You’ll turn to salt. Why not, though? Why not look? Isn’t it glittery? Isn’t it pretty, back there?

There are no more adventures for her in the upper air, in this room with her bed and the family pictures. Let’s go out and fight the storm, she used to say. So maybe she’s fighting it.

It’s what you hope too, right? That beyond death, there’s flight? After the shrouding, up you’ll rise, delicate wings and all. Oh honey, it won’t be like that. Not quite.

The aliens arrive. We like the part where we get saved. We like the part where we get destroyed. Why do those feel so similar? Either way, it’s an end. No more just being alive. No more pretend.

Despite all this we’re travelling fast, we’re travelling faster than light. It’s almost next year, it’s almost last year, it’s almost the year before: familiar, but we can’t swear to it. What about this outdoor bar, the one with the stained-glass palm tree? We know we’ve been here already. Or were we? Will we ever be? Will we ever be again? Is it far?

Dearly beloved, gathered here together in this closed drawer, fading now, I miss you. I miss the missing, those who left earlier. I miss even those who are still here. I miss you all dearly. Dearly do I sorrow for you. Sorrow: that’s another word you don’t hear much any more. I sorrow dearly.

Decades ahead, you’ll study your own temporary hands, and you’ll remember. Don’t cry, this is what happens.

Some berries occur in sun, but they are smaller. It’s as I always told you: the best ones grow in shadow.