Country Matters

by Ramona J. Oates

 

On the long summer evenings

I hid in the blue and white room,

and lay by myself on the bed—

it was too big for one alone—

and read forbidden books

stolen from the bookshelves

of older, more worldly cousins.

 

Across a ceiling, distant

and white as a drift of clouds,

evening shadows writhed in a primal dance.

Unfamiliar and disturbing,

they moved like lovers consummating their passions

or rending each other in mortal agonies.

 

I closed my eyes and, through the open window,

heard the rustling of cousins' clothes

as they embraced their lovers.

 

They sighed and whispered in a language I didn't know,

but learned in time, like Braille, with burning fingers.

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