Ah Yes, I Know Margaret Atwood
by Poema Escritor
Ah yes, I know Margaret Atwood,
I can drop her name in conversations
I can quote her books, or are those just short stories,
I’m not so sure.
Who introduced us? He did.
That gray-bearded gentleman who sits in front of
me. He’s the guy who hates the red pen.
The reddest pen there is. But this is not
about him. It’s about Margie.
Yes Margie. That’s what I call her.
I don’t know if I can, she never
really said. But I call her Margie
anyway. I think I met her under a
hot summer’s day. Something like
lemonades, yes, cold, sweaty lemonades,
contemporary literature, essays, and
reading assignments. Nope, she was not
my prof. Neither was she a visiting
lecturer. The sky was blue. It never
gets blue in Ohio, all the time. So,
I remembered her name when we
met. She extended her left hand. Oh,
wait, is it the right hand you use to
shake hands? I can never tell. I
just smile and extended the opposite hand.
Sometimes, I look at my hand when I
shake people’s hand. How different our
skin tones are. But their fingers and my
fingers both write the same words.
Only, Margaret, err, Margie,
write hers in better order. And mine?
My stories are never any more linear
than this one. But I did meet Margie once.
Once. Through the byline of her book.
Now if only I can meet her in person.