true stories

by margaret atwood

i

don't ask for the true story;
why do you need it?

it's not what i set out with
or what i carry.

what i'm sailing with,
a knife, blue fire,

luck, a few good words
that still work, and the tide.

ii

the true story was lost
on the way to the beach, it's something

i never had, that black tangle
of branches in a shifting light,

my blurred footprints
filling with salt

water, this handful
of tiny bones, this owl's kill;

a moon, crumpled papers, a coin,
the glint of an old picnic,

the hollows made by lovers
in sand a hundred

years ago: no clue.

iii

the true story lies
among the other stories,

a mess of colours, like jumbled clothing
thrown off or away,

like hearts on marble, like syllables, like
butchers' discards.

the true story is vicious
and multiple and untrue

after all. why do you
need it? don't ever

ask for the true story.