Sharon Olds writes about her sister . . .
The Takers
by: Sharon Olds
Hitler entered Paris the way my
sister entered my room at night,
sat astride me, squeezed me with her knees,
held her thumbnails to the skin of my wrists and
peed on me, knowing Mother would
never believe my story. It was very
silent, her dim face above me
gleaming in the shadows, the dark gold
smell of her urine spreading through the room, its
heat boiling on my legs, my small
pelvis wet. When the hissing stopped, when the
hole had been scorched in my body, I lay
crisp and charred with shame and felt her
skin glitter in the air, her dark
gold pleasure unfold as he stood over
Napoleon's tomb and murmured This is the
finest moment of my life.
I'm not going to discuss my relationships with my siblings. As I said above, the nature of close bonds is that people we love deeply can cause us great joy and great pain. It's what we do with that joy or pain that makes the difference. Sometimes estrangement happens. Sometimes reconciliation. And sometimes not.
One of my greatest joys as a father is the closeness I see between my daughter and son. The support each other, enjoy each other, and love each other. Deeply. Have they had their differences? Sure. Yet, I know they have each other's backs, and I have doubt that, long after I've left this life, they will be the best of friends.
That's gives me great hope. If nothing else, I've been a part of making two great, loving kids who are turning into two great, loving adults, even in the stickiest of life's struggles.
Saint Marty wrote a poem tonight about a sticky situation, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
In 1930, Scotch Tape was invented. Write a poem about a sticky situation you or someone your know has been in. Make sure to be specific with details and images. Once the poem is completed, cut up the poem into individual lines and use scotch tape to tape it back together, but in a different order.
Hypoglycemia
by: Martin Achatz
Sticky with sun and sweet,
unsure where I was, who
knew I was a queen that day,
if this was why workers flew
with gold dust and petals
down my throat, and I wondered
that maybe, just maybe, they,
when they found a spot rich
in my mouth, my face
starving for their royal jelly,
summer thick on my tongue,
why scouts danced in the hive
8 miles to forage pollen, nectar.
I was grass beneath my head.
I wake to the taste of bees.