written by Yesi and translated by Gordon T. Osing
I have your words, that you put down on paper,
but nothing at hand to return, so I write down
papaya. I cut one open: so many
dark points, so many undefined things.
You said you love papaya, but how do I know
you haven't changed since you said it?
Every time I bring one home to the refrigerator
you are not around. Is language the problem
or papaya? I can only choose
among the greenish-yellow skins;
I have to respond to that greenish-yellow skin
before knowing what you expect inside.
Can't we trust inside is sweet melon flesh?
It's only common sense. Then we cut it
and see only seeds that you hate.
You say it's better to find nothing,
better to avoid complications you can't get rid of.
They are hard to get hold of, slippery. They shoot everywhere.
Better not to get entangled. Better just don't say
so many words. Let's have our papaya without words.
Sure, but there's still this stuff in the mouth
that we chew and spit out: papaya.
Immediately you protest that's one word too many;
its skin is motely and its pulp thick with suggestions.