Vagina
July 14, 2024- Home, 7:30
I am a vagina. An anatomical organ, a black hole that is mysterious, isolated, hidden. A hole that leads to a canal and then to a box. An entrance to life-making, creation and pleasure. I am invaded the moment I realize my being..
Pleasure? I am the subject of worship, fetish aesthetics and theories. They tell me how I should feel, when I should breathe, when I must lock myself, how to look, what to do, and when to disappear.
I can see you peering in through a mirror as you try to understand what lies down there. I see your hungry desire as you open my flaps and stroke me. I feel exposed and used as you probe your fingers inside trying to discover your G- spot. I shout ‘it is not there!!!’
I am not what porn tells you. I do not sell pleasure. I just want to be left alone. I want time to feel safe, I need time to feel, to let go. Invasive ideas, explorers, commanders of war on a mission to conquer push right through me, and the pain is buried. I react; I spew inflammatory messages. You disregard them and keep an open door. I like it more when I am peeping through my hole onto the outside. It is more fun when things stay at the threshold. Anticipation is more fulfilling. My satisfaction is there.
I do not want anyone peering inside – not fingers, objects, and worse of all, cold metals to assess. Inside is mine to keep. I try reverse psychology. I throw myself open for eyes to look, for fingers to explore and objects to probe. Maybe if that threshold is pushed, I can feel something. I give out the wrong signal, and you can’t discern my fakeness. You do not even touch me unless to challenge, to dominate, to avenge. What statement are you trying to make? I was never like anything they told you I am! And you never take time to ask me.
Then you force these bodies in and out. And the rip, the big rip that implodes my walls, tears down my gate in the name of motherhood. Natural is not necessarily good for me. I hurt, I am stitched, and I sag in the name of life, in the name of sexual role, in the name of pleasure, in the name of the cycle of life. I hate you!
Stilleto Heel
January 22, 2022 – Egypt 12;06
I am a stiletto clanking without a sole.
I enjoy my click and clack,
Even more when my sole is worn out.
I am a sharp stiletto high heel
Disturbing the silence of the holy corridor,
As I peevishly enjoy the echoes of my clatter.
I click and clack whorishly
As I announce my bold presence.
I never go unnoticed nor will I ever.
I despise discreet flats-
Heels devoted to their rubber soles
Like worshipers to a cross; they are boring.
I am a sharp pointy stiletto, obstinately ignoring quieting shushes
Not out of will. This is who I am!
I am a shrill spiked stiletto
Tapping elate as I wear out my outsole
And take pleasure in my rattle.
A Road Curve
August 5, 2024- Home, 9:57
I am a road curve heading to nowhere. I bend over lush pine trees and cedars, as fresh grass lines my shoulders that twist in parallel perfection. I feel like I lead to nowhere because I really can’t see the end. I am rounded by the angle of my bend, and that is perhaps all I need.
Asking about beginnings and ends is futile, yet the question heightens the mystery that keeps me thinking. I can decide to un-curve into a straight line; perhaps then I can peer beyond the curve.
But do Í want to?
I heard some whispers, from footsteps, that the end converges onto a point that is elusive. That the farther you walk, the farther it drifts and the feet grow weary. I heard a pair once say, as they came around my bend, “There you go! That is a fresh perspective!”
An “R”
February 19, 2022 – Egypt, 8:38
I am an “R” rolled on some speakers’ tongues.
Haters say I am articulation gone unhinged, unchecked.
A niche for untrained tongues, unaligned teeth and quivering jaw lines.
I am an “R” rolled to distinguish colonial accents.
A sophisticated, scholarly sound, a sensual “Rrr” enticing sex.
I am an excuse to judge effeminate men and whores.
I am the yardstick for cultural refinement.
I am the “R” that ROLLS its meaning in context.
