Let me in;
I am howling at the door.
I want to be
something so much more.
A feeling, a persuasion,
an island creaming;
a gentle frothing of the surf.
Your body, dreaming
of mine. Gaining entrance
to the divine, you think;
but it is not so simple as this.
Neither is it a fleeting vision, a séance
where I hold you in the uncanniest
valley, between my thighs.
No lies here:
isti ngua poesia hierosa.
Ngua lugah pra buskah manusia
sa stori. Sa rikeza.
Yo lembrah bos kereh bos onsong sa Tranquerah.
So demarcate the plots of land.
There is enough space for every man
who wants to take a shot, and who wants to learn
how to ejaculate like a crumbling dam:
make me wet.
I am thirsty for any kind of sand,
running through my body.
You are afraid that this will be your funeral:
nang asih
kadangua mansebu mistih desah onsong sa kintal.
Otherwise we run the risk of
a coarse and excessive kind of sanctity.
I like it when your tongue goes paddleboarding
in the near vicinity
of a poem that has no respect.
Guess what?
I, in fact
have all of it. Every last one
of the images that still murmur and thrum
in your unconscious.
Tell me I'm tortured.
Tell me I write poems to make up numbers.
I think you will find instead
that I write poems to show you what lightning and thunder
feel like, when all shame is stripped away
and the Dreamtiger, the Noble Sex
has at last come so far
out to play.
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