Two Poems
Hendri Yulius Wijaya
First Touch
between the kitchen and the yard
a pair of watchful eyes
sofa, bolster pillows, refrigerator, also the bed
you enjoy resting
there. Once upon a time we play-pretended
while waiting for your father's car to arrive. you announced that you’re
doctor and I, patient. even without
stethoscope or a milky coat. anatomical illustrations of
the human body in science books
haven't had the privilege of acquainting with Adam and Eve from the Book of Genesis.
in its most ancient and innocent version, it becomes a map
for a middle-of-nowhere that has neither name nor language.
the forbidden fruit you left behind that afternoon before
going home. I used to pleasure myself before letting it trickle down my neck.
nowhere to be found was the other half of me.
two of us
both exceptional
robbers
you never did return.
Horny
lust like memory:
the more it’s imagined and remembered again
the stranger it feels.
lust exacts revenge on language:
because words only create distance
between the storyteller and the story they tell
themselves.
lust recognizes not the way back home:
it is not just address-less
but also map(per)-less.
between the kitchen and the yard
a pair of watchful eyes
sofa, bolster pillows, refrigerator, also the bed
you enjoy resting
there. Once upon a time we play-pretended
while waiting for your father's car to arrive. you announced that you’re
doctor and I, patient. even without
stethoscope or a milky coat. anatomical illustrations of
the human body in science books
haven't had the privilege of acquainting with Adam and Eve from the Book of Genesis.
in its most ancient and innocent version, it becomes a map
for a middle-of-nowhere that has neither name nor language.
the forbidden fruit you left behind that afternoon before
going home. I used to pleasure myself before letting it trickle down my neck.
nowhere to be found was the other half of me.
two of us
both exceptional
robbers
you never did return.
Horny
lust like memory:
the more it’s imagined and remembered again
the stranger it feels.
lust exacts revenge on language:
because words only create distance
between the storyteller and the story they tell
themselves.
lust recognizes not the way back home:
it is not just address-less
but also map(per)-less.
translated from the Indonesian by Edward Gunawan