Sunday, May 12, 2019

The Unborn by Sharon Olds

The Unborn

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.

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