Looking
For A Cousin On A Swing
- A.K. Ramanujan
When
she was four or five
she
sat on a village swing
and
her cousin, six or seven,
sat
himself against her;
with
every lunge of the swing
she
felt him
in
the lunging pits
of
her feeling;
and afterwards
we
climbed a tree, she said,
not
very tall, but full of leaves
like
those of a fig tree,
and
we were very innocent
about
it.
Now
she looks for the swing
in
cities with fifteen suburbs
and
tries to be innocent
about
it
not
only on the crotch of a tree
that
looked as if it would burst
under
every leaf
into
a brood of scarlet figs
if
someone suddenly sneezed.
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