Classic Poem

Why did those people laugh?
I don't know,
I couldn't know,
because it was long ago, when I was only two.

It was a hot day.
It was a noiseless summer day, a bright midday.
Stifling, curious, suggestive of some meaning.

Whose house it was, I don't know.
I only know about a lantern Grandpa made, that was yellow,
know about the odor of tiny clams that exuded blue juice
that an old woman with poor eyes was splitting on the earth floor.

When I woke from a sensuous dream during a nap,
a woman's ample hands
with the hasty, hot strength of a spring
collected me, took me to the shining porch.
There were flowers, tiny red flowers, flowers of pinks.

Innocent urination. . . .
The child was restlessly staring.
The red, red, flowers of pinks reflected in his eyes almost painfully,
something ticklish behind him. Was it the antique touch of a picture book?

What was so funny?
A great many young fishermen and unclad women gathered,
their souls uselessly moved to see
what was curious, fearful.

His head pressed down with soft breasts,
the child felt something suspicious.
Forever and ever, persistently, like a fond memory, helplessly,
the woman rubbed her body against him, breathing.
The odor of her sweat was strong, stifling, maddening,
whatever was fearful was behind him.

Why are those people laughing?
I don't know,
I couldn't know,
because it was one day long ago, when I was only two.

It was a hot day.
It was a noiseless bright midday by the briny river.
Out of a steamy childhood fear
I was peeing ... while staring
at the red flowers, tiny flowers, flowers of pinks that hurt my eyes.