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Poem

Our mouths don't tell boys Iike us
how to play hide-and-seek 
under the shades of valentino love 
when we're just toddlers of roses
mastering the wild game of love,
and song of songs from Solomon's verses
whose megaphone had led to the altar lyrical rappers and love therapist.

We don't tell boys Iike us
that love is as simple as ABC or 123
rather a transaction field
where we still find it difficult to keep dealings-
or rather pronounce the phonetics /eì/, /kju:/, /ju:/, /æks/
when L is /el/ O is /âu/ V is /vi:/ E is /i:/.
This love is crazy!

We don't remind boys Iike us
to be masculine enough on adventures
to the mountainous sea-gods 
like Bowman sketching algorithm and skulduggery;
and fishermen's netts hook in the shallow waters 
yapping fishes inside love-hole.
Boys Iike us aren't mad.

We don't tell boys Iike us
to be far from maidens
that invade the gate of their heart
and we don't remind them how
to compose a love letter—
Boys should be the architect of her house.

But for boys Iike us
we find comfort on our poems and books—holy books
the arithmetic, the equations, the formulas
that had line up into a single file:
in its unsolved riddles
giving room for the brain to do manual labor.

And when boys like us are done 
being the adventures of our bliss,
we sow love in our poems that will 
leave memories in seventh heaven
because boys Iike us are flesh and bones.

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