At thirteen I wanted
nothing more than for my belly to tuck and roll
to the voice of a bearded man singing
a universe grows on my body.
To get pushed
into a crowd whose every undulation is in a tribute to me
being untouched. I am not yielding.
Still you pronounced me as beautiful,
and I said habibi, keep singing,
and I will keep doing the things a woman is not supposed to do.
In the 7th grade prayer room, we practiced falling
on our knees
without the thump—muted,
is either what they think we are, or what they want us to be.
Ahmed’s parents wanted a son who didn’t want other boys, who wanted
their own hands to unravel despite their unwilling of it? The reprieve of
knowing Egypt will eventually lift their ban, and Mashrou’ will sing again
and suddenly life gives me back All that it has taken from me
And suddenly it’s just you and the man you love most
is on the other end of the crowd,
who in all black and fully veiled
won’t let you touch him for no other reason than,
well, it’s ungodly.
Tell them. Say it. Say, He blew love in my chest.
My God he blew love in my chest.
Shame is in the past.