by Randall Jarrell

    Moving from Cheer to Joy， from Joy to All，

    I take a box

    And add it to my wild rice， my Cornish game hens.

    The slacked or shorted， basketed， identical

    Food-gathering flocks

    Are selves I overlook.  Wisdom， said William James，

    Is learning what to overlook.  And I am wise

    If that is wisdom.

    Yet somehow， as I buy All from these shelves

    And the boy takes it to my station wagon¹，

    What I've become

    Troubles me even if I shut my eyes.

    When I was young and miserable² and pretty

    And poor， I'd wish

    What all girls wish： to have a husband，

    A house and children.  Now that I'm old， my wish

    Is womanish：

    That the boy putting groceries in my car

    See me.  It bewilders me he doesn't see me.

    For so many years

    I was good enough to eat： the world looked at me

    And its mouth watered.  How often they have undressed me，

    The eyes of strangers！

    And， holding their flesh within my flesh， their vile³

    Imaginings within my imagining，

    I too have taken

    The chance of life.  Now the boy pats my dog

    And we start home.  Now I am good.

    The last mistaken，

    Ecstatic， accidental bliss⁴， the blind

    Happiness that， bursting， leaves upon the palm

    Some soap and water——

    It was so long ago， back in some Gay

    Twenties， Nineties， I don't know . . . Today I miss

    My lovely daughter

    Away at school， my sons away at school，

    My husband away at work——I wish for them.

    The dog， the maid，

    And I go through the sure unvarying days

    At home in them.  As I look at my life，

    I am afraid

    Only that it will change， as I am changing：

    I am afraid， this morning， of my face.

    It looks at me

    From the rear-view mirror， with the eyes I hate，

    The smile I hate.  Its plain， lined look

    Of gray discovery

    Repeats to me： "You're old."  That's all， I'm old.

    And yet I'm afraid， as I was at the funeral

    I went to yesterday.

    My friend's cold made-up face， granite⁵ among its flowers，

    Her undressed， operated-on， dressed body

    Were my face and body.

    As I think of her I hear her telling me

    How young I seem； I am exceptional；

    I think of all I have.

    But really no one is exceptional，

    No one has anything， I'm anybody，

    I stand beside my grave

    Confused with my life， that is commonplace and solitary

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