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.