Kinabatangan
glides into wet valleys
that
see only the headhunter's bark like face
with
eyes dark as fresh tar. Man of the river people.
His
women, sun ripe mangoes
with
nipples like young ginger roots.
Lips
stained with betel juice. Blooming cerise.
The
Murut buys buffaloes, plants paddy.
Drinks
rice beer until his brown skin glows
mahogany
red. Takes a bride to his reed mat.
She
harvests rice, builds his fire, cooks
in
the best blue enamelware. Wild palm's heart.
Turtle
eggs with sunken shells.
On
nights which smell of tree buds
and
wet leaves, he slips loose her henna-red
sarong.
Hauled high between her legs.
Her
third child dies in her. A small procession
struggles
into the hills. On unconsecrated ground
the
pagans will bury their dead.