Margaret Atwood - The Handmaid's Tale - Chapter 16 lyrics

The Ceremony goes as usual i lie on my back
Fully clothed except for the
Healthy white cotton
Underdrawers what I could see, if I
Were to open my eyes, would be the
Large white canopy of Serena Joy's
Outsized colonial-style four-poster bed
Suspended like a sagging
Cloud above us, a cloud sprigged with
Tiny drops of silver rain, which
If you looked at them closely
Would turn out to be four-petaled flowers i
Would not see the carpеt, which is white
Or the sprigged curtains and skirtеd dressing
Table with it's silver backed
Brush and mirror set only the canopy
Which manages to suggest at one and the
Same time, by the gauziness of it's
Fabric and it's heavy downward curve
Both ethereality and matter
Or the sail of a ship big-bellied
Sails, they used to say
In poems bellying propelled forward
By a swollen belly a mist of Lily of the
Valley surrounds us, chilly
Crisp almost it's not warm in this room
Above me, towards the head of the bed, Serena
Joy is arranged, outspread her
Legs are apart, i
Lie between them, my head on her stomach, her
Pubic bone under the base of my skull
Her thigh on either side of
Me she too is fully-clothed
My arms are raised she holds my hands
Each of mine in each of
Hers this is supposed to
Signify that we are one flesh
One being what it
Really means is that she is in control
Of the process and thus of the product
If any the rings of her
Left hand cut into my fingers it
May or may not be revenge
My red skirt is hitched up to my waist
Though no higher below it
The Commander is fucking
What he is fucking is the lower part of
My body i do not say making love
Because this is not what
He's doing copulating
Too would be inaccurate
Because it would imply two
People and only one
Is involved nor does rape cover it: nothing
Is going on here that I
Haven't signed up for there
Wasn't a lot of choice but there was some
And this is what I chose
Therefore I lie still and picture
The unseen canopy over my
Head i remember Queen Victoria's
Advice to her daughter:
Close your eyes and think of
England but this is
Not England i wish he would hurry up
Maybe I'm crazy and this is
Some new kind of therapy
I wish it were true then I could
Get better and this would go away
Serena Joy grips my hands as if it
Is she, not I, who's being fucked
As if she finds it either pleasurable or
Painful, and the Commander fucks, with
A regular two-four marching stroke
On and on like a tap
Dripping he is preoccupied
Like a man humming to himself in
The shower without knowing he's
Humming like a man who has other
Things on his mind it's
As if he's somewhere else, waiting
For himself to come
Drumming his fingers on the table
While he wait's there's an impatience in his
Rhythm now but isn't this everyone's
Wet dream, two women at once? They
Used to say that exciting, they used to say
What's going on in this room
Under Serena Joy's silvery canopy
Is not exciting it has nothing to do
With passion or love or romance
Or any of those other notions we
Used to titillate ourselves with it
Has nothing to do with sexual
Desire, at least for me, and certainly not
For Serena arousal and orgasm are
No longer thought necessary
They would be a symptom of frivolity merely
Like jazz garters or beauty
Spots: superfluous distractions
For the light-minded outdated it seems odd
That women once spent such time
And energy reading about such things
Thinking about them, worrying about them
Writing about them they are
So obviously recreational
This is not recreation
Even for the Commander
This is serious business the Commander, too
Is doing his duty
If I were going to open my eyes a slit
I would be
Able to see him, his not-unpleasant
Face hanging over my torso, with
A few strands of his silver hair
Falling perhaps over his forehead
Intent on his inner journey, that
Place he is hurrying towards
Which recedes as in a dream
At the same speed with
Which he approaches it i would
See his open eyes
If he were better looking would
I enjoy this more?
At least he's an improvement
On the previous one
Who smelled like a church
Cloakroom in the rain
Like your mouth when the dentist starts
Picking at your teeth like a nostril
The Commander, instead, smells of mothballs
Or is this odor some punitive
Form of aftershave? Why does he
Have to wear that
Stupid uniform? But would I like his white
Tufted raw body any better?
Kissing is forbidden between us
This makes it bearable
One detaches oneself one describes
He comes at last
With a stifled groan as of relief serena
Joy, who has been holding her
Breath, expels it the Commander
Who has been
Propping himself on his elbows, away
From our combined bodies
Doesn't permit himself to
Sink down into us he rests a
Moment, withdraws, recedes, rezippers
He nods, then
Turns and leaves the room, closing the
Door with exaggerated care behind him, as
If both of us are his ailing
Mother there's something hilarious
About this, but I don't dare laugh
Serena Joy lets go of my hands
"You can get up now, " she
Says "Get up and get out" She's
Supposed to have me rest, for ten minutes
With my feet on a pillow
To improve the chances
This is meant to be a time
Of silent meditation for her
But she's not in the mood for that there is
Loathing in her voice
As if the touch of my flesh
Sickens and contaminates her i untangle
Myself from her body
Stand up the juice of the
Commander runs down my
Legs before I turn away I see
Her straighten her blue skirt
Clench her legs
Together she continues lying on the bed
Gazing up at the canopy above her
Stiff and straight as an effigy
Which of us is it worse for, her or me?