Before
the World Unbuttoned Its Blouse
Before the world unbuttoned its blouse,
in a dark shed, when I was twelve,
and you, four years older.
Sacks of cheese cloths hung from the ceiling,
in rows of white, dripping moons.
The smell of wet hay and damp planks.
The misery of insects to serenade us.
You knee deep in hay, with your pants down,
bent over a soggy bale.
Your skin more milky
than the farmer’s cheese
hanging from the beams.
“Rub it there,” you said.
“But don’t go in.”
I did whatever you said,
because it was summer,
because it was hot,
because we were young,
“Is your father dead?” you said,
as I rocked on top of you.
Years later,
we ran into each other
in the supermarket.
both pushing carriages,
in the dairy aisle.
By then, my father was dead.
Copyright © 2003 Jack Conway