The Talk - Sharon Olds
In the dark square wooden room at noon
The mother had a talk with the daughter.
The rudeness could not go on, the meanness to her little brother, the selfishness.
The 8-year-old sat on the bed
In the corner of the room, her irises dark as
The last drops of something, her firm
Face melting, reddening,
Silver flashes in her eyes like distant
Bodies of water glimpsed through the woods.
She took it and took it and broke, crying out
I hate being a person!
Diving
Into the mother
As if
Into a deep pond-and she cannot swim,
The child cannot swim.
The mother had a talk with the daughter.
The rudeness could not go on, the meanness to her little brother, the selfishness.
The 8-year-old sat on the bed
In the corner of the room, her irises dark as
The last drops of something, her firm
Face melting, reddening,
Silver flashes in her eyes like distant
Bodies of water glimpsed through the woods.
She took it and took it and broke, crying out
I hate being a person!
Diving
Into the mother
As if
Into a deep pond-and she cannot swim,
The child cannot swim.