By Margaret Atwood
I circle, confront
my opponent. The thing
refuses to be shaped, it moves
like yeast. I thrust,
the thing fights back.
It dissolves, growls, grows crude claws;
The air is dusty with blood.
It springs, I cut
with delicate precision.
The specimens
ranged on the shelves, applaud.
The thing falls Thud. A cat
anatomized.
O secret
form of the heart, now I have you.
YOU ARE READING
Speeches For Doctor Frankenstein
PoetryIn 1966, before they were international sensations, Margaret Atwood and Charles Pachter teamed up to create Speeches for Doctor Frankenstein — now a unique piece of cultural history. In a book that has only existed as an artist book of fifteen cop...
