Poem: the Bee's Knees

Your knee. That’s what I’ll remember most, prostrate next to you, reaching backwards, circling it with my blind right hand. Your skin is white marblestone smooth, your knee the kitchen counter in a mansion I’m not sure I belong in.

You are older, classy, not quite Eastern European, not quite Middle Eastern, plump olive eyes set against a Siberian landscape. Your simple dress intends to disguise your royal provenance, but you slip out of heels and approach with a grace that requires training. Years of careful measurements take time to unwind, and I keep circling your knee to see if I can start again.

An hour ago, you placed one hand on my shoulder and one on my chest, as if you were concerned your weight would be a nuisance. When I kissed your earlobe, you moved your earring to make a path for my tongue. Each movement betrays a lifetime of dignified behavior, thinking of others, being presentable. I do the best I can to turn back the clock, remind you of when you acted out of turn.

In the shadows, we time-travel together, and I see your younger self in the contours of your face, imagining all the moments I missed, and the other selves within you, waiting to emerge. You look back, smile, and remind me the proper time is now. 

MMR (2019)

Poem: A Concerto in V Sharp

From far away, bruscamente is the word that comes to mind. The pace is quick, the shoes don’t match a standard color, and if something fierce appears on the horizon, it might be her or another Indonesian tsunami.

Getting closer, we notice perfect teeth, expertly-applied makeup, and earrings matching the blouse (ah, the shoes weren’t accidental). Even then, it’s not until my hands become baby spianato and my gait mysteriously shifts from a capriccio to sostenuto adagietto that I realize I'm listening to a concerto I’ll never forget.

If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll manage to get even closer, but by then, it’ll be too late: you’re in an orbit that will ground satellites with a mere smile, bring you into her gravitational pull and, if you’re even luckier, never let you go.

© Matthew Rafat (August 2018) 

Poem: I Told You

I couldn’t sleep. Past 12AM, not ready to check out at 12PM. 
Too much energy from today, seeping through me like the soft red stains on my thigh from where you were sitting after sex. 
And I just wanted to touch your hair, that curly mess that bounces happily even when you don't smile. 

You're smart, of course, talking about politics like an old hand one moment, the next minute about making your niche in sweet potato tortillas in Mexico City, casually dropping names like Costco and Bimbo. 
You're the last person I'd expect to say she went on a diet at the age of 11, pre-puberty, pre-blood stains, but women, they see themselves in a light harsher than any sun the Mayans, Aztecs, or Mexicas ever measured. 
They worry about the water being wasted while I lather my hands with hotel soap, about not having a steady job post-university, about not finding love, or other things the universe measured by any calendar must see as small as the beautiful mole on your breast. 
(And that hair, it would make Samson jealous.) 

I find out later you were part of an all-women, American-style football team in a country where football is a different sport. 
In another photo, you are upside down, demonstrating a twisting maneuver only a contortionist would approve of. 
Little about you is congruent or straight, and as you walk beside me, in front of me, behind me, I see the black hair before I see you, and I enter your morena maze without a guide, map, or ticket. 
You kiss my eyelids and finally, I fall asleep. 

© Matthew Rafat