Poems by Emma Atkinson

You have called me your poem, and so I am.

My form you gathered from the great abyss

Of your eternal mind—and gave it flesh

And memory with which to ponder this.

The rhythm of my being lived in you

Until you uttered it into existence

And measured every word to suit the image

Of me which haunts you with its strange resistance

To being captured or rendered by your hand.

Yet when my being wrestles with your choice,

You are not slowed or hindered in your art,

But rather, incorporate this into your voice

So that the faults and fractures in my soul

Become a testament of your control.

Oh, how it must have hurt you, Lord, when I,

Refusing your embraces, fled

And sought asylum in another’s arms.

This you allowed that I might know first-hand

With what vehement love you bled

Since all but you betray the one they love.

But when my lover had deserted me,

I did not seek you out. Instead,

I ran with full abandon through the wood,

Both fleeing you and seeking to be found.

And spurred by love’s swift arrowhead,

I hid myself among the laurel trees,

And fell asleep beside the riverbed,

Dreaming you counted me among the dead.

Emma Atkinson