a poppy made of ink

“

Secrecy flows through you,

a different kind of blood.

It’s as if you’ve eaten it

like a bad candy,

taken it into your mouth,

let it melt sweetly on your tongue,

then allowed it to slide down your throat

like the reverse of uttering,

a word dissolved

into its glottals and sibilants,

a slow intake of breath –

And now it’s in you, secrecy.

Ancient and vicious, luscious

as dark velvet.

It blooms in you,

a poppy made of ink.

”
— Margaret Atwood, Secrecy