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.

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