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.