I am just a humble fruit-planter.
Nobody remembers me, nobody
bothers to mention, the one
most important in legends.
I plant with no seeds but I use
bones. Smooth white bones
I mix with engkanto’s wings
powdered overnight under the
starless and moonless night sky.
I am grave-digger but I let the
souls live. I put them to your
plates for your afternoon miryenda.
The boy’s hands and the girl’s eyes
and the lady’s heart and many more.
Those long hands of Aging I took
and planted to long yellow monkey-bread
you call it saging? I call it hand.
Eyes more than peacocks—Pina’s
Eyes. Eyes. Eyes. Eyes.
Pinya Pina Pinya…wordplays!
I loved Angga the most. Her golden
heart, her simple life, her sweet her.
I couldn’t have her—Now you
eat her with the pleasantness that
I should feel. Me, just me.
But no,
I am just a humble fruit-planter.
