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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