She was four, he was one, it was raining, we had colds, <br />we had been in the apartment two weeks straight, <br />I grabbed her to keep her from shoving him over on his <br />face, again, and when I had her wrist <br />in my grasp I compressed it, fiercely, for a couple <br />of seconds, to make an impression on her, <br />to hurt her, our beloved firstborn, I even almost <br />savored the stinging sensation of the squeezing, <br />the expression, into her, of my anger, <br />"Never, never, again," the righteous <br />chant accompanying the clasp. It happened very <br />fast-grab, crush, crush, <br />crush, release-and at the first extra <br />force, she swung her head, as if checking <br />who this was, and looked at me, <br />and saw me-yes, this was her mom, <br />her mom was doing this. Her dark, <br />deeply open eyes took me <br />in, she knew me, in the shock of the moment <br />she learned me. This was her mother, one of the <br />two whom she most loved, the two <br />who loved her most, near the source of love <br />was this. <br /> <br /> <br />Anonymous submission.<br /><br />Sharon Olds<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-clasp/
