CAFÉ DOMA "series", West Village

by Farrah Sarafa | 2009

I have been meeting a lot of cafe-goers, lately and as a writer I have them mapped out in my head, a color-schemed café map of New York City. Being able to write or capture some poetic sculpture from its interior, I can soundly say the café is an aquarium; a space dusty with turnover but elegant – in its frame. People that like cafés can't like them more than me, because I have five poems here, written in one sitting at Doma Café.

I. Burdened yet Burning High: Flames of Aphrodite in Seashell combed-cupped Breasts

I wish he were gay—that way
      I wouldn't have to feel that he wants me.

I wish he were married—that way
      I wouldn't have to notice him comb me fine into "divine" muse
             to use
                              for work and motivation.

I wish he were fat—that way
      I wouldn't have to look again, again—and
            Again he stares with
                        red-filled eyes carried proudly
                     from the dead—

                        I can no longer despise but
                                                Surprised-flattered-
                        Proud, pretty—emotionally scattered as
                         My playful detest flips upside-in
                                                                        To indulgent
                                                Sin—I want him to come
                        Near.

II. Golden Delicious

  Like biting, licking
the "perfect" Macintosh
with a relaxed tongue,
his eyes stroke her face and move
down, along the nape of her neck
to fine tune her love delight
with a caress in the crevice
        valley between two eyes: thighs.

III. Vulgarly Fragrant

 Sparks of hate
gather to glitter-seep deeply
 within me. I
can't help but

 detest All who smell
 like squirrel-meat
    I'd never want to meet, or
                    eat

but starve instead,
                Dyeing h-a-t-e to Redness,
             dying away my f-a-t-e to end
                    forgetfulness.
        Fulfillment
        Of something
  I dread, I wish to deadened desire,
    Desirelessness.

  Because walking with those so sweet,
who have fed me nothing but sweet
   is sinful. A sin—only won by their kin,
  folklore, and myth—a mirror, vanity alone
  will hail. I fail, at anything without Spice.

         Plea: I vent,

         "Will you perspire merlot-sour
            or sauvignon with a
            fresh berry scent?"

IV. Purple Flame At the Café

A sparkle of warmth, full and sweet like a purple grape
sits still, shyly caressing her books
with her teddy bear eyes

while he—decent mannered and sharp
  intelligently
   engages her.

    He captures her tears and puts them aside,
     interprets her fears
     and wisely requests she not hide

          her beauty

        collapses at the sight of another,
          tall, slim and dark she
              moves a streak of lightning
              to the sunlight drenched
              cushioned corner while he,
            struck by t w o and captivated
            intelligently engages Courtney
               captures his tears and
                swallows them whole,
                 rouses his man fears
                  gets him drôle.

             And so "Architect girl" stole
                    my nourishment.

V. Café Glow

Like statues—erect, still, and made for show,
men and woman at café Doma gather
to perform—to understand themselves in slow
motion through others' eyes
     through which she develops a flow
to match the guise possible lovers bestow
     on this rainy New York City night.

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