Sharon Olds
The Unflinching Chronicler of Flesh and Family
I write the body as it is—bloody, holy, undeniable.
My poems are born in the kitchen, the bedroom, the hospital. I write what it feels like to live inside flesh—your own, your child’s, your lover’s. I’ve known the sharp edge of confession and the soft mercy of attention. I teach that the poem is in the bruise, the blessing in the breakdown. And I still believe in the page as a place where blood speaks.
What I'm Into: the scent of children's hair, a lover's thigh, clear bead of sperm, one wild word, my father's belt
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