1.
Sex, as they harshly call it,
I fell into this morning
at ten o’clock, a drizzling hour
of traffic and wet newspapers.
I thought of him who yesterday
clearly didn’t
turn me to a hot field
ready for plowing,
and longing for that young man
pierced me to the roots
bathing every vein, etc.
All day he appears to me
touchingly desirable,
a prize one could wreck one’s peace for.
I’d call it love if love
didn’t take so many years
but lust too is a jewel
a sweet flower and what
pure happiness to know
all our high-toned questions
breed in a lively animal.

2.
That “old last act”!
And yet sometimes
all seems post coitum triste
and I a mere bystander.
Somebody else is going off,
getting shot to the moon.
Or a moon-race!
Split seconds after
my opposite number lands
I make it–
we lie fainting together
at a crater-edge
heavy as mercury in our moonsuits
till he speaks–
in a different language
yet one I’ve picked up
through cultural exchanges…
we murmur the first moonwords:
Spasibo. Thanks. O.K.

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1 Comment

  1. Rini Handayani says:

    I think she’s a genius one in poetry world. She can interplay sex and space.
    My assumption is she wrote this poem during the war between USA and USSR.
    She feels that she is the object of sex. Maybe that’s why she changed a lot in poetry entitled ” My mouth hovers across your breasts.
    Maybe my lecturer who concerns lesbianism and Gender studies named Sri Mulyani MA can help to paraphrase and to understand this poetry.

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