Your tongue deadens at Ibu’s decision. All you know about the man–the cowboy they call him—is that he is an actor. Has been one longer than the twelve years you’ve seasoned beneath blue sky. You first heard about him while playing engklek outside with the other girls. One foot balanced on a square scratched into packed dirt, the other craned behind you. As you leapt away from gossip between mothers, you pictured the man they spoke of. Tall outlaw, an empire under his sandals, though his hands shriveled dry of money, land. His family: half-blooded revolutionaries who angered their king in the land of windmills. A lineage doomed to lost riches. And yet, he was still the reckless froth bubbling between old women’s lips. A man who doesn’t need to rebrick his honor from the rubble. Bapak has shown you how men do not need to build. Their kingdoms are erected by the lips of women around them. And in this world that turns like a struck cheek, it’s why the most broken of men are gods. Now, Ibu confirms the cowboy is your wreckage to mold. Nduwé bojo sing bisa njaga kowe itu penting. Washing rice neither of you will eat, she shows you protection is no different than captivity. You bolt after the day blackens. Only sentinels of teak are left to guard your wilderness. If only your goosed hair could flutter like a million and one beetle wings. You sleep on the jungle’s matted fur, but even she would not have you as a bride. You aren’t yours to give. When Bapak finds you, a sizzling whip lashes against violet like a blanched scar. You return as a wife veiled in bramble. During your brief, childish rebellion, the village performed a ceremony. Bapak and Ibu held your dress up like a shucked husk. The cowboy stood beside it. Without being seen or touched, he claimed you. You are not iron, spine, and flesh. You are not beating with music. You are just waiting to be worn.