Poem: Pas de Deux: Balletomane in Malaysia

I was nervous when we met. You were a shade of color one finds only in Africa, that continent of a thousand and one dialects, and I'd never seen anyone so slender. Sensing my shyness, you began dancing effortlessly, first ballet, then hip hop, your graceful half-twirl more expert than your elbow pumps. I understood, looking at your naked movements, all seamlessly continuous, why politicians and billionaires build grand theaters.

In the shower, my stiff, pillowy hands moving downwards, I said you were small everywhere—until I reached your feet. At 48 kilograms vs. 220 pounds, our feet were improbable fraternal twins. Feeling a one-sided splendor, I moved backwards as fluidly as possible, washing your long toe while maneuvering to a different position. I offered a plié to demonstrate—and settle—our differences. After a failed attempt to grasp my femur, you made a fist, your second punch more rigorous, more delightful than your first.

When you glissaded to dry yourself, I followed, and we stood face to face. I thought your shoulders, a taut heart shape, were your best feature, but you shook your head. Studying your eyes, I explained they resembled the Eye of Horus, and I knew now why Egyptians believed your ancestors a symbol of good health. After a quick glance upwards--as if on cue--you switched from en face, readied yourself for a finale, and left me wanting to learn a grand reverence. 

© Matthew Mehdi Rafat (2020)

Bonus: "There is more diversity in pigmentation variation in Africa than anywhere else in the world. And yet pigmentation, skin colour, is the key founding principle of race as a social construct." -- Adam Rutherford (2020) 

Poem: Fire Ceremony

Some women cannot be categorized. It’s the gleam in her eyes as she sits next to you, when a single sideways look tells you degrees in physiology, psychology, and even physics are worthless. It’s when she loosens a string in her blouse and glances at you, daring you to do all the things you’ve dreamed of—knowing full well you won’t be able to keep up.

That’s the problem with us college boys. We frame our lives in rectangular wooden caskets, keep track of the latest restaurant openings, maybe even attend weekly poker nights. Nowhere do we envision the woman who shimmies when she shouldn’t, discarding civilization’s rules with a three-second dance. She’s seen our kind before—too often, sadly—and her eyes still gleam.

When she goes to the balcony for a smoke, I stay inside, a glass door separating our worlds. No matter how high the story, others look down on us, drafting rules to keep us in place. My three rectangular wooden caskets hem me in, creaking in tongues I can’t use to communicate. I pay respects to the undertakers by saying nothing, hoping she’ll silence their dirge with the sound of her voice. Her phone rings while I knead her back, and she answers, making plans for hours my eyes won’t open, not even on a Friday night.

She leaves, and suddenly, I'm hungry. After I return from eating alone, the room feels cavernous and dark. Like Plato’s Cave, my eyes try to adjust but cannot. The gleam is gone, and I’ve learned fire comes in many forms; also, that sometimes, all it helps you see are empty spaces and the dancing shadows you’ll miss. 

MMR (2019)