Sharon Olds comes home after a night out . . .
Son
by: Sharon Olds
Coming home from the women-only bar,
I go into my son's room.
He sleeps—fine, freckled face
thrown back, the scarlet lining of his mouth
shadowy and fragrant, his small teeth
glowing dull and milky in the dark,
opal eyelids quivering
like insect wings, his hands closed
in the middle of the night.
Let there be enough
room for this life: the head, lips,
throat, wrists, hips, penis,
knees, feet. Let no part go
unpraised. Into any new world we enter, let us
take this man.
I've done exactly what Olds does in this poem--come home after a long day and check on my kids before going to bed. It's a parent thing. I just couldn't relax when I was a young father until I knew both my son and daughter were still breathing. Then, I just sort of stood there, marveling at how I was a part of making this beautiful creature in front of me.
Speaking of my son, I can hear him upstairs, playing online games, and screaming obscenities at his friends: "You motherfucker!!" and "Fuck you!!" and "Asshole!!" I'd like to be shocked and claim I don't know where he learned such language, but I have a pretty good idea where he picked it up. (The phrase I utter at least 20 or so times a day is "You have got to be fucking kidding me!")
Kids really have a way of putting life into perspective. Before my daughter and son showed up, I was pretty self-centered. My wife and I went to movies, ate a restaurants, hung out with friends, stayed out late, came home slightly drunk. We had a dog, but no houseplants. We could do whatever we wanted, when we wanted, with whomever we wanted.
Now I am much older, with a 24-year-old daughter and 16-year-old son, mortgage, car payments, and a really cute puppy. In short, I'm not completely in charge of my life anymore, but I'm okay with that. My kids are amazing, funny, and smart. I like to believe I had a small part in bringing these two bright souls into the universe. If that's what I'm remembered for when I eventually leave this world, I'd count that as a win.
Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about that honeymoon time before kids, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Use the following line from Natasha Trethewey's "Theories of Time and Space" to begin a poem that provides directions to a specific geographic place: Everywhere you go will be somewhere / you've never been. Aim to engage all five of your reader's senses as you lead him or her to Crater Lake, Munich, Tasmania, Italy, the Grand Canyon, etc.
Hanauma Bay,
May 1996
by: Martin Achatz
Everywhere you go will be somewhere
you've never been.
-- Natasha Trethewey, "Theories of Time and Space"
I dreamed of your body next to mine
in the night
before we even had a bedroom
or bed.
In polar dark, I explored each
isthmus and cove
of you until I no longer
needed maps
or directions, the gentle coax
to turn left
then right, right again, right
and right and Jesus
right again! Now, after almost 30
years of traveling
through the atlas of your muscles, limbs,
rivers, canyons,
I return to that far green
place where
coral and surf kissed
your skin
with salt, me rolling onto
you, pressing my
lips to yours lips, letting waves
rush over us
like Burt and Deborah in
From Here
to Eternity, chasing your
parrot fish
with my tongue, tasting the ocean
between your legs,
getting lost over and over and over,
only wanting
to take you somewhere you've never
been before.
