Wild Women of Borneo

. . . was what a red-faced, stamping nun
called the eighth grade girls
who bleached and teased their hair
into moonlit jungles,
whose ripe mango breasts
pressed against their uniform jumpers,
whose pierced ears glittered
with bright primeval hoops.
Wild Women of Borneo:
barefoot at the Christmas mixer,
rocking and rolling in shameless ecstasy.
Wild Women of Borneo:
smearing their cheeks with rouge!
Hidden behind my books,
I watched them smoking in the school yard,
their private rite.
Singing of the Virgin’s power,
I saw them primp at holy mass,
their minds on no immaculate conceptions.
They favored white lipstick,
black slips,
a perfume called Tabu—
I tell you, I studied those girls
the way I studied my catechism,
reading them for questions,
memorizing their answers
and never quite solving
their glorious mysteries.
O Wild Women of Borneo,
that red-faced, stamping nun
who gave me A’s and praises
never guessed
with what transfixion
my heart attended you—
or with what unrest.