Free One Secret Thing by Sharon Olds Page A

was slicked down, you
    want to say to the wind, Stop, that’s
    the leader’s hair, but the wind keeps lifting it
    and separating the thin strands and
    fanning it out like a weed-head in the air.
    His brows look bright in the airport glare,
    his eyes are crinkled up against the sun, you
    want to say to his eyes, Stop, you are
    the leader’s eyes, close yourselves, but they are
    on his side, no part of his body
    can turn against him. His thumbnail is long and
    curved—it will not slit his throat for the
    sake of the million children; his feet in their
    polished shoes won’t walk him into the
    propeller and end the war. His heart won’t
    cease to beat, even if it knows
    whose heart it is—it has no loyalty to
    other hearts, it has no future outside his body.
    And you can’t suddenly tell his mind that it is
    his mind, get out while it can,
    it already knows that it’s his mind—
    much of its space is occupied with the
    plans for the marble memorial statues
    when he dies of old age. They’ll place one
    in every capital city of his nation
    around the world—Lagos, Beijing,
    São Paolo, New York, London, Baghdad,
    Sydney, Paris, Jerusalem,
    a giant statue of him, Friend to the Children
    of the leader’s country—
    which will mean all children, then,
    all those living.
8. The Smile
    The man hunched on the ground, holding
    the arm of the corpse, is smiling. And the man
    bending over, stabbing the chest,
    a look of pleasant exertion on his face,
    is smiling. The man lying on the ground is
    staring up, shirt splattered black
    like splashes around a well where the bucket has been
    dipped and dipped. They hold his wrists, as if
    displaying his span, a large bird
    slung from its heavy wing tips,
    and the handsome young man goes on stabbing
    and smiling, and the other sits on the ground
    holding the dead arm like a leash, smiling.
9. Free Shoes
    The pairs of shoes stand in rows,
    polished and jet, like coffins for small pets,
    lined with off-white. Evacuated children
    sit in rows eyeing the pairs,
    child after child after child, no parents
    anywhere near. When it’s their turn,
    they get a pair of new shoes
    and the old ones are taken away.
    Of course it is kind of the nice people
    to give them the shoes. Of course it is better
    to be here in the country, not there where the buildings
    explode and hurl down pieces of children.
    Of course, of course. This life that has been
    given them like a task! This life, this
    black bright narrow unbroken-in shoe.
10. The Body-Sniffers
    Eventually, they found the people
    who could tell by the smell whether or not
    someone was alive in the ruins. They would crouch,
    move their heads above holes in the rubble,
    and after a while they’d say Yes, there is something,
    someone. They’d inhale some more,
    lying flat on the planks, the odor
    trickling up, into their brains, and
    sometimes they’d say, It’s too late, here.
    Other times the blood was still flowing and
    then the large beams would be hoisted, the
    pipes cut, the bricks lifted,
    foot by foot they’d go down and the sniffer would
    say, Keep going, someone’s there! They’d dig day and
    night without sleep to see the eyelids
    flutter, to smell the fresh, dissolved salt.
11. His Crew
    Burning, he kept the plane up
    long enough for the crew to jump. He could
    feel the thrust down, and the lift,
    each time one of them leapt, full-term, the
    parachutes unfolding and glistening, little
    sacs of afterbirth. They drifted toward
    what could be long lives, his fist
    seared to the stick. When he’d felt all six
    leave him, he put the nose down
    and saw the earth coming up toward him,
    green as a great basin of water
    being lifted to his face.
12. The Body
    The body lies, dropped down on the stones,
    pieces of plastic and steel in it, it is
    not breathing, it cannot make its
    heart pump no matter how hard it tries.
    It tries to move its left hand,
    its left foot—its lips, tongue,
    it cannot cry, it cannot feel,
    the lovely one is gone,