Soft or hard, purple or brown, my mouth takes
it deep your tongue tongues it, crests it. Our lips
purse as we start to suck, as her cunt quakes
and salt droplets her skin. With acid trips,
frigatrix fingers and chronic, we shared
a bed and your sister’s ruined body —
cancer had left her rickety and scared.
Deep love requires desire. The three
of us odd things. You say orgasms must
be the cure. I say with enough pleasure
we will hold on. But love, debanawen,
even death, nbowen, is neither just
nor fair. It just is. Like how we kiss her.
We pass the bong. We do it again.
Today marks Week 2 in my studies of the Potawatomi language. I want to learn it because it is beautiful to my ear. My goal is to one day translate English and Spanish poetry into Potawatomi, to help expand its edges, to make this world a little more interesting to be in. That said I am going to be working on this project for a long time to come. I’m constantly getting my verb tenses mixed up, which is why this poem is using only simple nouns. Love, in Potawatomi, is, “Debanawen,” while Death is, “Nbowen.” I hope soon to be able to form more complex sentences in my sonnets but today I’m being kind to myself. I’m a slow learner.