I’m laughing at her, that red-cheeked doll,
my storm-of-the-century. She is icicles!
I’m hoarding odd gallons, dreaming of fear.

This is how I have always drawn myself,
skirted and level, not half so spiral as what, as me.
This is how I have always, and suffer it

As a doll I flew on a plane
for a lover, convinced his fists
uncovering my blood meant: win.

He could come back soon, unpacked
knife to threaten, rough-grabbed
pout and piquant blade. I am always

They are wrong: one can die from heat
or one can die weeded and bland. Shoes
will forget they walked ever down steps

On holiest day dismal I am digested myself, composed.
There will be one of these each year, specific apology,
each sin. That of horrible tongue, cut-rusted, that

All are ghost faces, and all of us sick
walking in our own sick skin. I am myself
here to avoid you, hovering always

Lynn Melnick reads a Sharon Olds poem about finding sensuality in unlikely places.