by Elizabeth Bishop¹

    In Worcester， Massachusetts，

    I went with Aunt Consuelo

    to keep her dentist's appointment

    and sat and waited for her

    in the dentist's waiting room.

    It was winter. It got dark

    early. The waiting room

    was full of grown-up people，

    arctics and overcoats，

    lamps and magazines.

    My aunt was inside

    what seemed like a long time

    and while I waited I read

    the National Geographic²

    （I could read） and carefully

    studied the photographs：

    the inside of a volcano，

    black， and full of ashes；

    then it was spilling over

    in rivulets³ of fire.

    Osa and Martin Johnson

    dressed in riding breeches，

    laced boots， and pith helmets.

    A dead man slung⁴ on a pole

    ——"Long Pig，" the caption⁵ said.

    Babies with pointed⁶ heads

    wound round and round with string；

    black， naked women with necks

    wound round and round with wire

    like the necks of light bulbs.

    Their breasts were horrifying⁷.

    I read it right straight through.

    I was too shy to stop.

    And then I looked at the cover：

    the yellow margins⁸， the date.

    Suddenly， from inside，

    came an oh！ of pain

    ——Aunt Consuelo's voice——

    not very loud or long.

    I wasn't at all surprised；

    even then I knew she was

    a foolish， timid woman.

    I might have been embarrassed，

    but wasn't.  What took me

    completely by surprise

    was that it was me：

    my voice， in my mouth.

    Without thinking at all

    I was my foolish aunt，

    I——we——were falling， falling，

    our eyes glued to the cover

    of the National Geographic，

    February， 1918.

    I said to myself： three days

    and you'll be seven years old.

    I was saying it to stop

    the sensation of falling off

    the round， turning world.

    into cold， blue-black space.

    But I felt： you are an I，

    you are an Elizabeth，

    you are one of them.

    Why should you be one， too？

    I scarcely dared to look

    to see what it was I was.

    I gave a sidelong glance

    ——I couldn't look any higher——

    at shadowy gray knees，

    trousers and skirts and boots

    and different pairs of hands

    lying under the lamps.

    I knew that nothing stranger

    had ever happened， that nothing

    stranger could ever happen.

    Why should I be my aunt，

    or me， or anyone？

    What similarities——

    boots， hands， the family voice

    I felt in my throat， or even

    the National Geographic

    and those awful hanging breasts——

    held us all together

    or made us all just one？

    How——I didn't know any

    word for it——how "unlikely". . .

    How had I come to be here，

    like them， and overhear

    a cry of pain that could have

    got loud and worse but hadn't？

    The waiting room was bright

    and too hot. It was sliding

    beneath a big black wave，

    another， and another.

    Then I was back in it.

    The War was on. Outside，

    in Worcester， Massachusetts，

    were night and slush and cold，

    and it was still the fifth

    of February， 1918.

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