The Pulling

Every hour now, he is changing
shedding some old ability.
Knees up, body tin-coloured,
hair black and grey, thick with
grease like ritual unguent, my father
moves, hour by hour, head-first
towards death. I sense every inch of him moving
through me towards it, the way each child
moved, slowly, down through my body,
as if I were God feeling the rivers
pulling steadily through, the universe
itself hauled through me heavily and easily,
drawn through my body like a napkin through a ring –
as if my father could live and die
safely inside me.

Sharon Olds

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s