To You, from Your Secret Admirer
By Sharon Olds
I love the conversations we have
after making love—of course it’s just me, making
love to myself, talking to you,
loving you—though I do not really
know you, so I guess not loving you—
craving the dream of knowing you.
“When will I be able to scream with you?!”
I moan. “I am screaming, I am screaming,” I moan, very
quiet. Afterwards, breathing in
the fragrance on my fingers, I tell you that
I love the smell with a tender love, it is so
sweet, so nectar, as I’ve loved with a strong
love the smell of semen, with those
working animals in it,
those snapping rippling tails! I want
to go with you
somewhere I have not
been—and just lie, in a bed
for days, sometimes eat, sometimes
swim, I am so tired of not looking at you,
I want to gaze at you with a day-long
gaze. The barriers down! The doors off their
hinges! After coming, and coming,
as if with you, I miss you more.
I want you hour and hour in my line of
sight, I want to sing with you to
dance with you and sleep with you in the
still (sho dote’n shoby doe) of the nii-iiight
