By Sharon Olds, from THE DEAD AND
THE LIVING
"The Death of Marilyn
Monroe"
The ambulance men touched her cold
body, lifted it, heavy as iron,
onto the stretcher, tried to
close the
mouth, closed the eyes, tied the
arms to the sides, moved a caught
strand of hair, as if it
mattered,
saw the shape of her breasts,
flattened by
gravity, under the sheet
carried her, as if it were she,
down the steps.
These men were never the same. They
went out
afterwards, as they always did,
for a drink or two, but they
could not meet
each other's eyes.
Their lives
took
a turn--one had nightmares,
strange
pains, impotence, depression. One
did not
like his work, his wife looked
different, his kids. Even death
seemed different to him--a place
where she
would be waiting,
and one found himself standing at
night
in the doorway to a room of
sleep, listening to a
woman breathing, just an ordinary
woman
breathing.
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