True Love

A love poem from the very center of life—from that mid-stage that is so often rushed and undefined, but is memorably chronicled in the poems of Sharon Olds.

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True Love In the middle of the night, when we get up after making love, we look at each other in complete friendship, we know so fully what the other has been doing. Bound to each other like mountaineers coming down from a mountain, bound with the tie of the delivery-room, we wander down the hall to the bathroom, I can hardly walk, I hobble through the granular shadowless air, I know where you are with my eyes closed, we are bound to each other with huge invisible threads, our sexes muted, exhausted, crushed, the whole body a sex—surely this is the most blessed time of my life, our children asleep in their beds, each fate like a vein of abiding mineral not discovered yet. I sit on the toilet in the night, you are somewhere in the room, I open the window and snow has fallen in a steep drift, against the pane, I look up, into it, a wall of cold crystals, silent and glistening, I quietly call to you and you come and hold my hand and I say I cannot see beyond it. I cannot see beyond it.