Sharon Olds Poems
|2.||A Week Later||1/13/2003|
|4.||Her First Week||11/28/2014|
|5.||I Could Not Tell||11/19/2011|
|6.||I Go Back To May 1937||11/19/2011|
|7.||Japanese-American Farmhouse, California, 1942||1/20/2003|
|9.||My Son The Man||1/7/2015|
|12.||Still Life In Landscape||11/19/2011|
|13.||Take The I Out||1/20/2003|
|16.||The Daughter Goes To Camp||1/13/2003|
|20.||The Mortal One||1/13/2003|
|23.||The Space Heater||1/13/2003|
Sometimes I can almost see, around our heads,
Like gnats around a streetlight in summer,
The children we could have,
The glimmer of them.
Sometimes I feel them waiting, dozing
In some antechamber - servants, half-
Listening for the bell.
Sometimes I see them lying like love letters
In the Dead Letter Office
And sometimes, like tonight, by some black
Second sight I can feel just one of them
Standing on the edge of a cliff by the sea
In the dark, stretching its arms out
Desperately to me.
To say that she came into me,
from another world, is not true.
Nothing comes into the universe
and nothing leaves it.
My mother—I mean my daughter did not
enter me. She began to exist
inside me—she appeared within me.
And my mother did not enter me.
When she lay down, to pray, on me,