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) 

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