Habitation by Margaret Atwood

Marriage is not
a house or even a tent

it is before that, and colder:

The edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
the unpainted stairs
at the back where we squat
outside, eating popcorn

where painfully and with wonder
at having survived even
this far

we are learning to make fire

The Balancing Act

It’s a difficult task

Precariously balancing

My face on my neck

Will it fly away

Like a balloon without a string?

Will it fall on the ground

And break into unsymmetrical pieces?

Will it evaporate into hot air?

Sublimate into nothingness

Or will the water I pour on my head

Erode it gradually?

A tightrope act

Lest the disembodied features

Float in mid-air.