Soft and strong,
a texture like pressing your fingers into my sarong
where waste meets waistline, and skirts meet the outskirts of my tan’s divide:
choklat, pesisi, laranja—tudu podih sibrih
pra pintah ngua mundu di jenti teng denti
brani kung brabu, teng forsa machukah areka korah jugah chiki;
it is something I will admit freely,
that I have no idea where my seeds may fall,
but I do enjoy something so safely and comfortably
raw. Chuma tudu otru angkoza ja skuleh na bariga, pra sempri.
Agora kung naki, yo ta bendeh kalkizera yo sa saiki
kereh ofertah kung deus-deus di tudu tera kung almari.
Yo sa libru-libru ja gadrah na bos sa maduru;
kontu yo kereh, yo bai buskah bos sa kaza susegadu.
Ketoh-ketoh, desah fola-fola animu.
I smear you in my forest skin and smell and juices,
waiting for you to choose
between use and useless.
Something so sweet-smelling and something so fragrant
should never be seen as something to loose,
unless one’s loins are really as bad as they say:
unless one’s mind has become utterly fruitless.