The Prostitutes Poem by António Manuel Pires Cabral

Back then our town
would be visited by prostitutes -
our only recourse,
the perfect answer to our accumulated
seminal anxiety.
They came from Vale da Porca, or from
some equally godforsaken place.
They came with flashy scarves on their heads
and handbags containing the old, sad story:
artless seduction and chronic squalor,
but not mere mercenary vice.
In barnyards, planted between their legs
like kings, we gave them our waters.
To flatter us they tried to time
their feigned orgasms with our own.
They kissed us, saying: so young!
They endured our insults and rude thrusts.
With an experienced (but not surfeited) hand
they guided us in that beautiful and urgent
education that cannot wait,
extending us credit and affection -
those women who were so chaste,
those prostitutes.

Translation: 2008, Richard Zenith