In my country

you say, "there is

no word for it."

In my country

you say, "our

way of life."

In my country

you might over-

hear the story

of the woman

with eleven children,

who never once

achieved orgasm.

Here, the diffident

are the squires

of conviction;

they know that

talking undid

a few people.

Here, a woman

saddened by love

might lose her

gloves, blame her

children, then find

them under her hat

on top of her head.

It is always

the mother

in my country.

Tell me

it is different

in yours.