In India once my ayah fed me the moon from a silver spoon. On the doorsills of my cake cactus heaves at the hinges. On the windowsills of my cake thistles gong on the bars. Somebody hacks back the bolts with his hands and advances, on me all womanly, on me alone, in my cell, ten years deep in the icing, cowering, a female afraid, squeaking out so enticing. In the dusty afternoons and in the twilight I listen to the voices.
Boys shout in the distant street.
Boys trespass in my grounds, after sunset, and whistle and whisper among my jungles. I shall order a shotgun from London to teach them their duty just where they sit down. But behind my shutters, at my door open on the chain, I listen to the voices among my darkening trees. Billy is innocent and Joey is a villain. Such things they say, a lady could not repeat them.