Margaret Atwood, Ofglen, Offred - The Handmaid's Tale - Chapter 4 lyrics

I walk along the gravel path that
Divides the back lawn, neatly
Like a hair parting it has rained during
The night the grass to either side
Is damp, the air humid here
And there are worms
Evidence of the fertility
Of the soil, caught by the sun
Half dead flexible and pink, like lips
I open the white picket gate and continue
Past the front lawn and towards the front
Gate in the driveway
One of the Guardians assignеd to
Our household is washing the car that
Must mean thе Commander is in
The house, in his own quarters, past
The dining room and beyond
Where he seems to stay most of the time
The car is a very expensive one
A Whirlwind better than the Chariot
Much better than the chunky, practical


Behemoth it's black, of course, the color
Of prestige or a hearse
And long and sleek the driver is going
Over it with a chamois, lovingly
This at least hasn't changed
The way men caress good cars
He's wearing the uniform of the Guardians
But his cap is tilted at
A jaunty angle and his sleeves
Are rolled to the elbow
Showing his forearms, tanned but with
A stipple of dark hairs, he
Has a cigarette stuck in the
Corner of his mouth
Which shows that he too has something he
Can trade on the black market
I know this man's name: Nick i know
This because I've heard Rita and Cora
Talking about him, and once I heard
The Commander speaking to him: Nick
I won't be needing the car
He lives here, in the household
Over the garage low status: he hasn't
Been issued a woman, not even one
He doesn't rate: some defect, lack
Of connections but he acts as if
He doesn't know this, or care
He's too casual, he's not servile
Enough it may be stupidity
But I don't think so
Smells fishy, they used to say or, I smell
A rat misfit as odour despite myself
I think of how he might smell not fish or
Decaying rat tanned skin
Moist in the sun, filmed with smoke i sigh
Inhaling
He looks at me, and sees me looking he has
A French face, lean, whimsical
All planes and angles, with creases
Around the mouth where he smiles
He takes a final puff
Of the cigarette, lets it
Drop to the driveway
And steps on it he begins
To whistle then he winks
I drop my head and turn so
That the white wings hide
My face, and keep walking he's
Just taken a risk
But for what? What if I were to report him?
Perhaps he was merely being
Friendly perhaps he saw the look on my face
And mistook it for something else really
What I wanted was the cigarette
Perhaps it was a test
To see what I would do perhaps he is an Eye
I open the front gate and close it behind me
Looking down but not
Back the sidewalk is red brick that
Is the landscape I focus on
A field of oblongs, gently undulating where
The earth beneath has buckled, from decade
After decade of winter frost the color
Of the bricks is old
Yet fresh and clear sidewalks are kept much
Cleaner than they used to be
I walk to the corner and wait
I used to be bad
At waiting they also serve who
Only stand and wait
Said Aunt Lydia she made us memorize it
She also said
Not all of you will make it through some of
You will fall on dry ground or thorns some
Of you are shallow-rooted she had
A mole on her chin
That went up and down while
She talked she said, think of
Yourselves as seeds, and right then
Her voice was wheedling, conspiratorial
Like the voices of those women who
Used to teach ballet classes
To children, and who would say
Arms up in the air
Now let's pretend we're trees i
Stand on the corner, pretending I am a tree

A shape, red with white wings around
The face, a shape like mine
A nondescript woman in red carrying a
Basket, comes along the brick sidewalk
Towards me she reaches
Me and we peer at each other's faces
Looking down the white tunnels of cloth that
Enclose us she is the right one
"Blessed be the fruit, " she says to me
The accepted greeting among us
"May the Lord open, " I answer
The accepted response
We turn and walk together
Past the large houses, towards the central
Part of town we aren't allowed
To go there except in
Twos this is supposed to
Be for our protection
Though the notion is absurd: we
Are well protected already
The truth is that she is my spy, as I am
Hers if either of us slips
Through the net because of
Something that happens on one
Of our daily walks
The other will be accountable
This woman has been my partner for
Two weeks I don't know
What happened to the one before
On a certain day she
Simply wasn't there anymore
And this one was there in her place
It isn't the sort of thing
You ask questions about
Because the answers are not
Usually answers you want
To know anyway there wouldn't be an answer
This one is a little plumper than I am
Her eyes are brown her name is Ofglen, and
That's about all I know about her she walks
Demurely, head down, red-gloved hands
Clasped in front, with
Short little steps like a trained pig's
On it's hind legs during these
Walks she has never said
Anything that was not strictly
Orthodox, but then, neither
Have I she may be a real believer
A Handmaid in more than name
I can't take the risk
"The war is going well, I hear, " she says
"Praise be, " I reply
"We've been sent good weather"
"Which I receive with joy"
"They've defeated more of the rebels
Since yesterday" "Praise be, " I say I don't
Ask her how she knows, "What were they?"
"Baptists they had a stronghold in the
Blue Hills they smoked them out" "Praise be"
Sometimes I wish she would just shut up
And let me walk in peace but
I'm ravenous for news, any kind of
News even if it's false news
It must mean something
We reach the first barrier, which is
Like the barriers blocking off roadworks
Or dug-up sewers: a wooden crisscross painted
In yellow and black stripes
A red hexagon which means
Stop near the gateway there
Are some lanterns, not lit because it isn't
Night above us, I know
There are floodlights, attached
To the telephone poles, for
Use in emergencies, and there are men
With machine guns in the pillboxes
On either side of the road I don't see the
Floodlights and the pillboxes
Because of the wings around my face
I just know they are there
Behind the barrier, waiting for us at the
Narrow gateway, there are two men
In the green uniforms
Of the Guardians of the Faith
With the crests
On their shoulders and berets:
Two swords, crossed, above a
White triangle the Guardians aren't
Real soldiers they're used
For routine policing and
Other menial functions, digging up
The Commander's Wife's garden, for instance
And they're either
Stupid or older or disabled or very young
Apart from the ones that are Eyes incognito
These two are very young: one
Mustache is still sparse
One face is still blotchy
Their youth is touching, but
I know I can't be deceived by it the young
Ones are often the most
Dangerous, the most fanatical
The jumpiest with their guns they haven't
Yet learned about existence through time
You have to go slowly with them
Last week they shot a woman
Right about here she was a
Martha she was fumbling in her
Robe, for her pass, and they thought she was
Hunting for a bomb they thought she was a
Man in disguise there have
Been such incidents
Rita and Cora knew the woman i
Heard them talking about it, in the kitchen
Doing their job, said Cora keeping us safe
Nothing safer than dead, said Rita
Angrily she was minding her own business
No call to shoot her
It was an accident, said Cora
No such thing, said Rita everything is meant
I could hear her thumping the pots around
In the sink
Well, someone'll think twice before blowing
Up this house, anyways, said Cora
All the same, said Rita she worked hard that
Was a bad death i can think of worse
Said Cora at least it was quick
You can say that, said Rita i'd
Choose to have some time, before
Like to set things right
The two young Guardians salute us
Raising three fingers to the rims
Of their berets such
Tokens are accorded to us
They are supposed to show respect
Because of the nature of our service
We produce our passes, from the zippered
Pockets in our wide sleeves, and
They are inspected and stamped one man
Goes into the righthand pillbox
To punch our numbers into the Compuchek
In returning my pass
The one with the peach-colored
Mustache bends his head
To try to get a look at my
Face i raise my head a little, to help him
And he sees my eyes and I see his
And he blushes his
Face is long and mournful, like a sheep's
But with the large full eyes of a dog
Spaniel not terrier his skin
Is pale and looks unwholesomely tender
Like the skin under a
Scab nevertheless, I think of placing
My hand on it, this exposed face he is the
One who turns away
It's an event, a small defiance of rule
So small as to be undetectable
But such moments are the rewards I hold
Out for myself, like the candy
I hoarded, as a child
At the back of a drawer
Such moments are possibilities
Tiny peepholes
What if I were to come at night
When he's on duty alone though he
Would never be allowed such
Solitude and permit him beyond my
White wings? What if I
Were to peel off my red shroud and
Show myself to him, to them, by
The uncertain light of the lanterns? This is
What they must think about sometimes, as
They stand endlessly beside this barrier
Past which nobody ever comes except
The Commanders of the Faithful in
Their long black murmurous cars
Or their blue Wives
And white-veiled daughters
On their dutiful way to Salvagings or
Prayvaganzas, or their dumpy green Marthas
Or the occasional Birthmobile, or their
Red Handmaids, on foot
Or sometimes a black painted van
With the winged Eye in white on the
Side the windows of the vans are dark-tinted
And the men in the front seats
Wear dark glasses: a double obscurity
The vans are surely more silent than
The other cars when they pass
We avert our eyes if there
Are sounds coming from inside
We try not to hear them
Nobody's heart is perfect
When the black vans reach a checkpoint
They're waved through without a pause the
Guardians would not want to take the
Risk of looking inside, searching
Doubting their authority whatever they think
If they do think you can't
Tell by looking at them
But more likely they don't think
In terms of clothing discarded
On the lawn if they think of a kiss
They must then think immediately of the
Floodlights going on
The rifle shots they think instead of
Doing their duty and of
Promotion to the Angels, and of being
Allowed possibly to marry, and then
If they are able to
Gain enough power and live to be old enough
Of being allotted a Handmaid of their own

The one with the mustache opens
The small pedestrian gate for
Us and stands back, well out of the way
And we pass through as we walk away
I know they're watching
These two men who aren't yet
Permitted to touch women
They touch with their eyes instead and
I move my hips a little
Feeling the full red skirt sway around me
It's like thumbing your nose from behind
A fence or teasing a dog with
A bone held out of reach
And I'm ashamed of myself for
Doing it, because none of this is
The fault of these men
They're too young then I
Find I'm not ashamed after all i enjoy
The power power of a dog bone
Passive but there i hope
They get hard at the sight of us and
Have to rub themselves against
The painted barriers, surreptitiously
They will suffer, later, at night
In their regimented
Beds they have no outlets
Now except themselves
And that's a sacrilege there are no
More magazines, no more films
No more substitutes only me and
My shadow, walking away from the two men, who
Stand at attention, stiffly, by a roadblock
Watching our retreating shapes