By Margaret Atwood
I was insane with skill:
I made you perfect.
I should have chosen instead
to curl you small as a seed,
trusted beginnings. Now I wince
before this plateful of results:
core and rind, the flesh between
already turning rotten.
I stand in the presence
of the destroyed god:
a rubble of tendons,
knuckles, and raw sinews.
Knowing that the work is mine
how can I love you?
These archives of potential
time exude fear like a smell.
To buy the complete enhanced eBook from Anansi Digital, click here: http://www.houseofanansi.com/frankenstein
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...
