Sullen, baffled, stunned, resentful.
And where there had been a piquant child,
now a torso burned with parcels—
a kid carrying her mother’s packages—
breast, breast, side-hip, side-hip,
buttock, buttock.
I did not know that my spirit might have been broken by
my mother’s violence.
I just ate whipped cream, with a Venus V of
apricot pie to hold it up—
Crisco and butter and whip, O My!
Crisco & butter & whip! And now
I see I’d been broken and was recovering.
My mother thought she was related to kings,
she would bouffe up her dead-fine hair and wear a tiara
to parties,
and my visage was like a hard-boil, dropped on the floor,
crazed. And how did I get here from there?
They said, TROchee, Iamb—NO one can PUT—
TROchee, TROchee, TROchee, TROchee, Iamb,
No one can put
Humpty Dumpty back
together again,
but then came high school, and friends,
Borson, Lepawsky, Barshay,
each from a strong mother—
and the Queens’ horses, and the Queens’ women put
Humpty Dumpty back together again—she was a good egg.
Turned out I was sort of an ordinary treasure.
—Sharon Olds
Sharon Olds’s numerous books of poetry include Balladz, Stag’s Leap, The Living and the Dead, The Gold Cell, and One Secret Thing.