The Son

By Mary Oliver

The son my father never had
lived with me
secretly;
before I sleep
I thought of him
with his strong wrists,
with my eyes.
My mother's body,
too torn from the expulsion
to bear again
fed me,
but the longing was clear.
Soon
I could fight like a boy
I could shoot a gun,
I could get lost
and find my way home.
I could not name the things
I was afraid of
like my own body,
cranky and mysterious
as water.
Of course I dreamed
a miracle would happen.
How they loved him,
his swagger, his long legs!
So, in the end,
I must pity them, I suppose,
for the sorrow
that hangs in the air
even now
when I greet them
as kindly as I can
in my happiness,
in my soft body,
in my long and shining hair -
for it was all true:
the miracle of myself,
their dreams,
their despair.