Margaret Atwood - The Handmaid's Tale - Chapter 12 lyrics

The bathroom is beside the bedroom it's
Papered in small blue flowers
Forget-me nots, with curtains to match
There's a blue bath mat
A blue fake-fur cover on the
Toilet seat all this bathroom
Lacks from the time before is
A doll whose skirt
Conceals the extra roll of toilet
Paper except that the mirror
Over the sink has been taken out and replaced
By an oblong of tin, and
The door has no lock, and there are no
Razors, of course thеre were incidеnts in
Bathrooms at first: there were cuttings
Drownings before they got
All the bugs ironed out cora sit's on
A chair outside in the hall, to see
That no one else goes in in a
Bathroom, in a bathtub, you are vulnerable
Said Aunt Lydia she didn't say to what
The bath is a requirement
But it is also a luxury merely to lift
Off the heavy white wings and the
Veil, merely to feel my own hair again
With my
Hands, is a luxury my hair is long now
Un-trimmed hair must be long but
Covered aunt Lydia said: Saint
Paul said it's either that or a close shave
She laughed, that held back neighing of hers
As if she'd told a joke
Cora has run the bath it
Steams like a bowl of
Soup i take off the rest of the clothes
The overdress, the white shift and
Petticoat, the red stockings
The loose cotton pantaloons pantyhose
Gives you crotch rot
Moira used to say aunt Lydia would
Never have used an expression like
Crotch rot unhygienic was hers she wanted
Everything to be very hygienic
My nakedness is strange to me already my
Body seems outdated did I really
Wear bathing suit's, at the beach? I
Did, without thought, among men, without
Caring that my legs, my arms, my
Thighs and back were on display
Could be seen shameful, immodest i avoid
Looking down at my body
Not so much because it's shameful or immodest
But because I don't want to see
It I don't want to look at
Something that determines me so completely

I step into the water, lie down
Let it hold me the water is soft
As hands i close my eyes, and she's
There with me, suddenly, without warning
It must be the smell
Of the soap i put my face against the
Soft hair at the back of her neck
And breathe her in, baby powder and child's
Washed flesh and shampoo, with an undertone
The faint scent of urine this is
The age she is when I'm
In the bath she comes back
To me at different ages
This is how I know she's not
Really a ghost if she
Were a ghost she would be the same age always
One day, when she was eleven months old
Just before she began to walk
A woman stole her out of a
Supermarket cart it was a Saturday
Which was when Luke and I
Did the week's shopping
Because both of us had jobs
She was sitting in the little baby seats
They had then, in supermarket carts, with
Holes for the legs she was happy
Enough, and I'd turned my back, the cat food
Section I think it was Luke was over
At the side of the store, out of sight
At the meat counter he liked to choose
What kind of meat we were going
To eat during the week he said
Men needed more meat than women
Did, and that it wasn't a superstition
And he wasn't being a jerk, studies had
Been done there are some differences, he said
He was fond of saying that
As if I was trying to prove
There weren't but mostly he said
It when my mother was there
He liked to tease her
I heard her start to cry i turned
Around and she was disappearing down the
Aisle, in the arms of a woman
I'd never seen before i screamed
And the woman was stopped she must have
Been about thirty-five she was crying
And saying it was her baby, the
Lord had given it to her
He'd sent her a sign i felt
Sorry for her the store
Manager apologized and they held her
Until the police came
She's just crazy, Luke said
I thought it was an isolated incident
At the time
She fades, I can't keep her here with me
She's gone
Now maybe I do think of her as a ghost
The ghost of a dead
Girl, a little girl who died when
She was five i remember the
Pictures of us I once had
Me holding her, standard poses, mother
And baby, locked in a frame
For safety behind my closed eyes I
Can see myself as I am now
Sitting beside an open drawer, or
A trunk, in the cellar, where the
Baby clothes are folded away, a
Lock of hair, cut when she
Was two, in an envelope
White-blond it got darker later
I don't have those things anymore
The clothes and hair i
Wonder what happened to all our
Things looted, dumped out, carried away
Confiscated
I've learned to do without a lot of things if
You have a lot of things, said Aunt Lydia
You get too attached to this
Material world and you
Forget about spiritual values you
Must cultivate poverty
Of spirit blessed are the meek she didn't go
On to say anything about inheriting the earth
I lie, lapped by the water, beside an
Open drawer that does not exist
And think about a girl who did not die when
She was five who still does exist, I hope
Though not for me do I exist for her?
Am I a picture somewhere
In the dark at the back of her mind?
They must have told her I was dead
That's what they would think of
Doing they would say it would be
Easier for her to adjust

Eight, she must be now i've filled
In the time I lost
I know how much there's been
They were right, it's easier, to
Think of her as dead I
Don't have to hope then, or
Make a wasted effort why bash
Your head, said Aunt Lydia
Against a wall? Sometimes she had a
Graphic way of putting things

"I ain't got all day, " says Cora's
Voice outside the door it's true
She hasn't she
Hasn't got all of anything i must not deprive
Her of her time i soap myself
Use the scrub brush and the
Piece of pumice for sanding
Off dead skin such puritan
Aids are supplied i
Wish to be totally clean
Germless, without bacteria
Like the surface of the
Moon i will not be able
To wash myself, this evening
Not afterwards, not for a day
It interferes, they say
And why take chances?
I cannot avoid seeing, now
The small tattoo on
My ankle four digit's and an eye
A passport in reverse it's supposed
To guarantee that I will never
Be able to fade, finally
Into another landscape i am
Too important, too scarce
For that i am a national resource
I pull the plug, dry myself, put on my
Red terrycloth robe i leave
Today's dress here, where Cora will pick
It up to be washed back in the room I dress
Again the white headdress isn't
Necessary for the evening
Because I won't be going out everyone in
This house knows what my face
Looks like the red veil goes on, though
Covering my damp hair, my head, which
Has not been shaved where did I
See that film, about the women
Kneeling in the town square
Hands holding them
Their hair falling in clumps? What
Had they done? It must have been
A long time ago, because, i can't remember

Cora brings my supper, covered
On a tray she knocks at the door before
Entering i like her for that it
Means she thinks I have some of what
We used to call privacy left
"Thank you, " I say, taking the tray from
Her, and she actually smiles at me
But she turns away without
Answering when we're
Alone together she's shy of me
I put the tray on the
Small white painted table
And draw the chair up to it i
Take the cover off the tray the thigh of
A chicken, overcooked it's
Better than bloody
Which is the other way she does it rita
Has ways of making her resentments felt a
Baked potato, green beans, salad canned pears
For dessert it's good enough food
Though bland healthy food you have to
Get your vitamins and minerals, said
Aunt Lydia coyly you must be a
Worthy vessel no coffee or tea
Though, no alcohol studies have been
Done there's a paper napkin
As in cafeterias
I think of the others, those without
This is the heartland, here, i'm leading
A pampered life, may the Lord make
Us truly grateful, said Aunt Lydia, or was
It thankful, and I start to eat the food
I'm not hungry tonight i
Feel sick to my stomach but there's
No place to put the food
No potted plants, and I won't chance
The toilet i'm too nervous
That's what it is could I
Leave it on the plate
Ask Cora not to report
Me? I chew and swallow, chew and swallow
Feeling the sweat come out in
My stomach the food balls it'self together
A handful of damp cardboard, squeezed
Downstairs, in the dining room
There will be candles on
The large mahogany table, a
White cloth, silver, flowers
Wine glasses with wine in them
There will be the click
Of knives against china, a clink as
She sets down her fork, with
A barely audible sigh, leaving half
The contents of her plate untouched possibly
She will say she has
No appetite possibly she won't say
Anything if she says something
Does he comment? If she doesn't say
Anything, does he notice? I wonder
How she manages to
Get herself noticed i think it must be hard

There's a pat of butter on
The side of the plate
I tear off a corner of the paper napkin
Wrap
The butter in it, take it to the cupboard and
Slip it into the toe of my right shoe
From the extra
Pair, as I have done before i crumple up
The rest of the napkin: no one, surely
Will bother to smooth it
Out, to check if any is
Missing i will use the
Butter later tonight it would
Not do, this evening, to smell of butter

I wait i compose myself my self is
A thing I must now compose
As one composes a speech what I
Must present is a made thing, not
Something born