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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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