I practise the outworn Victorian art
Of hooking wool roses to cover
The piano legs; limbs rather; but under
These ornate surfaces, the hard
Naked wood is still there.
I am industrious and clever
With my hands: I execute in paint
Landscapes on doorpanels and screens.
Down my arranged vistas, furniture
And pillows flourish in plump scenery
And on my table stands a miniature
Lemon tree in a small china garden.
It is prudent to thus restrain one’s eden
Indoors. I never eat my bitter lemons
And everything remains in its own spot
Except the devil, who is under the piano
With a fringed purple tablecloth over
Him. I hear him sucking lemon rinds.
I cannot make him blend with my decor
Even with roses: his tail sticks out behind.
Copyright © 2024 by Margaret Atwood, Paper Boat: New and Selected Poems 1961-2023, McClelland & Stewart