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.||Sex Without Love -new-||6/24/2016|
|13.||Still Life In Landscape||11/19/2011|
|14.||Take The I Out||1/20/2003|
|17.||The Daughter Goes To Camp||1/13/2003|
|18.||The Death of Marilyn Monroe||6/12/2015|
|23.||The Month of June: 13 1/2||9/15/2015|
|24.||The Mortal One||1/13/2003|
|27.||The Space Heater||1/13/2003|
|30.||The Wedding Vow||10/13/2015|
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.
When I got to his marker, I sat on it,
like sitting on the edge of someone's bed
and I rubbed the smooth, speckled granite.
I took some tears from my jaw and neck
and started to wash a corner of his stone.
Then a black and amber ant
ran out onto the granite, and off it,
and another ant hauled a dead
ant onto the stone, leaving it, and not coming back.