Nine/Eleven/Five

"Good things come in little parcels.'
He said it twice, my uncle,
with a mischievous smile.
It was a manicure set.
It was my birthday. I was nine.
At eleven, in the spare room,
I'd wake early, listen to every sound —
polishing of boots, bathroom taps—
as he made ready for work.
Always neat and well-organised,
a meticulous man.
I kept petticoat and all on
under my nightie. My aunt said,
when she found out, "That's dirty.'
Year after year
I went there for holidays.
Why don't I remember?
At five, in the tool shed,
I told him to put me down. "Why,'
he said, "why, what's wrong?'
in a soft voice.
And I walked up the yard,
through the sunlight,
with an immense dignity,
knowing I would not speak of it,
knowing.