Margaret Atwood - The Handmaid's Tale - Chapter 2 lyrics

A chair, a table, a lamp
Above, on the white ceiling
A relief ornament in the shape of a wreath
And in the centre of it
A blank space, plastered over
Like the place in a face where the
Eye has been taken out there
Must have been a chandelier
Once they've removed anything you could
Tie a rope to a window, two white curtains
Under the window
A window seat with a little
Cushion when the window
Is partly open - it only opens partly
- the air can come in and
Make the curtains move i can
Sit in the chair, or on
The window seat, hands folded
And watch this sunlight comes
In through the window too, and
Falls on the floor
Which is made of wood, in narrow strips
Highly polished i can smell
The polish there's a rug on the floor, oval
Of braided rags this is the kind of touch
They like: folk art, archaic, made by
Women, in their spare time
From things that have no further use
A return to traditional values waste
Not want not i am not being
Wasted why do I want?
On the wall above the chair, a picture
Framed but with no glass: a print
Of flowers, blue irises, watercolour
Flowers are still allowed does each
Of us have the same print, the same chair
The same white curtains
I wonder? Government issue?
Think of it as being in the army
Said Aunt Lydia
A bed single, mattress medium hard
Covered with a flocked white spread
Nothing takes place in the
Bed but sleep or no sleep i try not
To think too much like other things now
Thought must be rationed there's
A lot that doesn't bear thinking about
Thinking can hurt your chances
And I intend to
Last i know why there is no glass, in
Front of the watercolour picture
Of blue irises
And why the window only opens
Partly and why the glass
In it is shatterproof it isn't running away
They're afraid of we wouldn't get
Far it's those other escapes, the ones
You can open in yourself
Given a cutting edge
So apart from these details, this could
Be a college guest room, for the
Less distinguished visitors or a room in
A rooming house, of former times
For ladies in reduced circumstances this is
What we are now the circumstances
Have been reduced for those of
Us who still have circumstances
But a chair, sunlight
Flowers: these are not to be
Dismissed i am alive, I live, I breathe
I put my hand out, unfolded
Into the sunlight where I am is not
A prison but a privilege, as Aunt Lydia said
Who was in love with either or

The bell that measures time is ringing
Time here is measured by
Bells, as once in nunneries as
In a nunnery too, there are few mirrors
I get up out of the chair, advance my
Feet into the sunlight, in their red shoes
Flat heeled to save the spine
And not for dancing the red
Gloves are lying on the
Bed i pick them up, pull them onto my hands
Finger by finger everything except
The wings around
My face is red: the colour of
Blood, which defines us the skirt
Is ankle length, full, gathered
To a flat yoke that extends over the breasts
The sleeves are full the whitewings
Too are prescribed issue
They are to keep us from seeing
But also from being seen i never looked
Good in red, it's not my colour
I pick up the shopping basket
Put it over my arm
The door of the room - not my room
I refuse to say my - is not locked
In fact it doesn't shut properly i go
Out into the polished hallway, which has
A runner down the centre, dusty
Pink like a path through the forest
Like a carpet for royalty
It shows me the way
The carpet bends and goes down the front
Staircase and I go with it
One hand on the banister, once a
Tree, turned in another century, rubbed
To a warm gloss late Victorian, the
House is, a family house, built
For a large rich family there's a
Grandfather clock in the hallway
Which doles out time, and then the door
To the motherly front sitting room
With it's flesh tones and hints a
Sitting room in which I
Never sit, but stand or kneel only
At the end of the hallway
Above the front door, is a
Fanlight of coloured glass: flowers
Red and blue there remains a mirror
On the hall wall if I turn my head
So that the white wings framing my
Face direct my vision towards it
I can see it as I godown the stairs
Round, convex, a pier-glass, like
The eye of a fish, and myself in it
Like a distorted shadow, a
Parody of something, some fairy tale
Figure in a red cloak
Descending towards a moment of
Carelessness that is the same
As danger a Sister, dipped in blood
At the bottom of the stairs there's
A hat-and-umbrella stand, the bentwood kind
Long rounded rungs of wood curving gently up
Into hooks shaped like the opening
Fronds of a fern there are
Several umbrellas in it: black, for the
Commander, blue, for the Commander's Wife
And the one assigned to me
Which is red
I leave the red umbrella where it is
Because I know from the window
That the day is sunny i wonder whether or
Not the Commander's wife
Is in the sitting room she doesn't always
Sit sometimes I can hear her
Pacing back and forth, a heavy step
And then a light one
And the soft tap of her
Cane on the dusty-rose carpet
I walk along the hallway
Past the sitting-room door and
The door that leads into the dining room
And open the door at the end of the
Hall and go through into the kitchen
Here the smell is no longer of
Furniture polish rita is in here
Standing at the kitchen
Table, which has a top of chipped white
Enamel she's in her usual Martha's dress
Which is dull
Green, like a surgeon's gown of
The time before the dress
Is much like mine in
Shape, long and concealing
But with a bib apron over it and
Without the white wings and the veil
She puts on the veil to go outside
But nobody much cares who sees the face of
A Martha her sleeves are rolled to the elbow
Showing her brown arms she's making bread
Throwing the loaves for the final brief
Kneading and then the shaping
Rita sees me and nods
Whether in greeting or in
Simple acknowledgement of my presence
It's hard to say, and
Wipes her floury hands on her
Apron and rummages in
The kitchen drawer for the
Token book frowning, she tears out
Three tokens and hands them to
Me her face might be
Kindly if she would smile but the frown isn't
Personal: it's the red dress
She disapproves of, and what
It stands for she thinks I may be catching
Like a disease or any form of bad luck
Sometimes I listen outside closed doors
A thing I never would have
Done in the time before
I don't listen long, because I don't want
To be caught doing it once, though
I heard Rita say to Cora that
She wouldn't debase herself like that
Nobody asking you, Cora said anyways
What could you do, supposing?
Go to the Colonies
Rita said they have the choice
With the Unwomen
And starve to death and Lord knows
What all? said Cora catch you
They were shelling peas even
Through the almost-closed door
I could hear the light clink of the
Hard peas falling into the metal bowl i
Heard Rita, a grunt or a sigh
Of protest or agreement
Anyways, they're doing it for
Us all, said Cora, or so they say if
I hadn't of got my tubes tied
It could of been me
Say I was ten years younger it's not that
Bad it's not what you'd call hard work
Better her than me, Rita said
And I opened the door their faces
Were the way women's faces
Are when they've been talking about
You behind your back
And they think you've heard: embarrassed
But also a little defiant, as if it
Were their right that day, Cora was
More pleasant to me than usual
Rita more surly
Today, despite Rita's closed face
And pressed lips, i would like to stay here
In the kitchen cora might
Come in, from somewhere else in the house
Carrying
Her bottle of lemon oil and her duster
And Rita would make coffee
In the houses of the Commanders
There is still real coffee and we would sit
At Rita's kitchen table, which
Is not Rita's any more than my table is mine
And we would talk, about
Aches and pains, illnesses
Our feet, our backs
All the different kinds of
Mischief that our bodies
Like unruly children, can
Get into we would nod
Our heads as punctuation
To each other's voices, signalling that yes
We know all about it we would
Exchange remedies and try to outdo
Each other in the
Recital of our physical miseries
Gently we would complain, our
Voices soft and minor key and
Mournful as pigeons in
The eaves troughs i know what you mean
We'd say or, a quaint expression you
Sometimes hear, still, from
Older people: I hear where
You're coming from, as
If the voice it'self were a traveller
Arriving from
A distant place which it would be
Which it is
How I used to despise such talk now I long
For it at least it was talk an exchange
Of sorts or we would gossip the Marthas know
Things, they talk among themselves
Passing the unofficial news from house
To house like me
They listen at doors, no doubt
And see things even with
Their eyes averted i've heard
Them at it sometimes
Caught whiffs of their private conversations
Stillborn, it was or, stabbed
Her with a knitting needle, right
In the belly jealousy
It must have been, eating
Her up or, tantalizingly, it
Was toilet cleaner she used
Worked like a charm
Though you'd think he'd of tasted
It must've been that
Drunk but they found her out all right
Or I would help Rita make the bread
Sinking my hands into that soft
Resistant warmth which is so much like
Flesh i hunger to touch something
Other than cloth or wood i hunger
To commit the act of touch
But even if I were to ask, even if
I were to violate decorum to that extent
Rita would not allow it she
Would be too afraid
The Marthas are not supposed
To fraternize with us
Fraternize means to behave like a brother
Luke told me that he said
There was no corresponding word that
Meant to behave like a
Sister sororize, it would have to be
He said from the Latin
He liked knowing about such details
The derivations of words
Curious usages i used to tease
Him about being pedantic
I take the tokens from Rita's outstretched
Hand they have pictures on
Them, of the things they can
Be exchanged for twelve eggs, a
Piece of cheese
A brown thing that's supposed to be a steak
I place them in the zippered
Pocket in my sleeve, where I keep my pass
"Tell them fresh, for the eggs
" she said "Not
Like the last time and a chicken, tell them
Not a hen tell them who it's for
And then they won't mess around" "All right
" I say I don't smile
Why tempt her to friendship?