The disappearing act

When I first saw you, I thought you were beautiful. Tall, tanned, Indian. And  I looked like me, awkward, weird. But I knew it was you I wanted. The most brilliant mind in our year. I wanted to pick your brain, even if you wouldn’t look me in my eyes, even if your lips wouldn’t linger on mine, I was infatuated with your mind.

on a winter’s night. I  wore my converse, and nearly not enough makeup, to the solstice ball with all arrays of fair beauties with rosy cheeks and bodycon dresses.

“This is lame,” I thought; leaning on the wall, nursing my gin and tonic, watching folks reveling. Amid that dim neon florescent hall, I recognized you in a navy suit.

I recall how suave you looked. I remember an intense current course through me like never before. I stopped thinking. If I didn’t; I would inevitably convince myself how terrible the idea was. I downed my drink, hauling myself from the wall, then I met you at your heel.

I was jittery when I yelled;

“do you want to dance with me?, you lowered your ear close to me on my ground, so I repeated it. You said, “okay”.

I began to move my heels, then my hips. I closed my eyes so I would feel the music. I took an ephemeral moment to contain myself, the man of my dreams dancing with me, and when I opened my eyes, you were gone.

I wish I could say I didn’t expect it. I wish I had disappeared instead.

The Shrine

Her hips sway to the beat of the banjo

Skylight filters through thatch roof

The flicker of light on a solemn night

A hue of blue shades her face

Her pelvis wines

In the center of the shrine.

 

 

The audience watch keenly

Such mastery,

Such art

From a beautifully dangerous woman

Like foreplay for their eyes.

Their unduly gander, in turn, solaced her.

 

 

She calms herself with each exhale

Invoking a fire

Attuned to her chakras.

This dance was passed down

Her grandmother to her mother,

Through generations

It was dubbed;

“the puppet and the serpent,”

For it reached into each heart

Those stubborn, frivolous hearts

Becharming them to her will.

 

 

 

Her body twists aggressively

as though strings attach to her

the one thing she excelled at,

it called to her

unlike the job she so dreaded

so society wouldn’t label her, a trollop

because people are threatened by anyone outside the box.

 

 

Each evening,

she polished her pearls

she donned her shawl

she’d burn the incent

and step barefoot into the shrine.

 

 

Night after night,

her lovelies would pour in

this was where she was meant to be

because even if the world passed away,

this was the one place she reigned as god.