A Week Later<\/b>
\nby Sharon Olds<\/i><\/p>\n
A week later, I said to a friend: I don’t
\nthink I could ever write about it.
\nMaybe in a year I could write something.
\nThere is something in me maybe someday
\nto be written; now it is folded, and folded,
\nand folded, like a note in school. And in my dream
\nsomeone was playing jacks, and in the air there was a
\nhuge, thrown, tilted jack
\non fire. And when I woke up, I found myself
\ncounting the days since I had last seen
\nmy husband-only two years, and some weeks,
\nand hours. We had signed the papers and come down to the
\nground floor of the Chrysler Building,
\nthe intact beauty of its lobby around us
\nlike a king’s tomb, on the ceiling the little
\npainted plane, in the mural, flying. And it
\nentered my strictured heart, this morning,
\nslightly, shyly as if warily,
\nuntamed, a greater sense of the sweetness
\nand plenty of his ongoing life,
\nunknown to me, unseen by me,
\nunheard, untouched-but known, seen,
\nheard, touched. And it came to me,
\nfor moments at a time, moment after moment,
\nto be glad for him that he is with the one
\nhe feels was meant for him. And I thought of my
\nmother, minutes from her death, eighty-five
\nyears from her birth, the almost warbler
\nbones of her shoulder under my hand, the
\neggshell skull, as she lay in some peace
\nin the clean sheets, and I could tell her the best
\nof my poor, partial love, I could sing her
\nout with it, I saw the luck
\nand luxury of that hour.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
A Week Later by Sharon Olds A week later, I said to a friend: I don’t think I could ever write about it. Maybe in a year I could write something. There is something in me maybe someday to be written; now it is folded, and folded, and folded, like a note in school. And … Continue reading “we could have been a beautiful machine”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[128],"class_list":["post-3748","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3748","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3748"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3748\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3748"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3748"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3748"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}