My Favorite Slovak

Of all the Slovaks that I have met,

there’s one I simply can’t forget.

He won first place, and that’s a fact,

though he’s the only Slovak in the act.

His name is Martin, Maťo too,

protein-powered through and through.

Caffeine-fueled and gym-approved,

with shoulders sculpted, highly improved.

He lifts me up with just one hand,

or maybe fingers, I understand.

Gravity bends at his command,

while I just watch and understand.

He stands upon his hands with ease,

while I admire what I please.

And only then, turned upside down,

his Let Go tattoo turns right around.

Perhaps there’s wisdom hiding there,

to let things go, to simply care,

to sit together, hand in hand,

and need no more than where we stand.

He loves his shakes from JuiceLand,

and when it comes to food, he’s planned.

He’s always Mr. Right on what to eat,

and I surrender to defeat.

He likes his girls one-quarter Pinay.

I think I pass, in my own way.

No Filipino blood in me,

but childhood counts, at least to me.

We’re different worlds upon a map,

yet somehow there is little gap.

A Slovak boy, a Chinese girl,

both American inside this world.

I still remember his first touch,

his hand in mine, it meant too much.

So nervous that I hardly knew

what hands and fingers ought to do.

Our first kiss? That’s harder still.

I dreamed it first against my will,

rehearsed it in my head so much

that memory tangled dream and touch.

And then there was the underwear,

abandoned in a dryer somewhere.

I caught my flight; he stayed behind.

True love, apparently, is kind.

But underneath the jokes and play,

there’s something harder still to say.

It’s how he looks into my eyes,

and suddenly the noise subsides.

No judgment waiting, nothing planned,

just Maťo there, holding my hand.

We talk of everything we know,

of where we’ve been, of where we’ll go.

Or meditate and say no word,

and somehow everything is heard.

I love his eyes, his lips, his nose,

his smile, his ears, yes, even those.

His hands, his shoulders, height and chest,

I may be slightly too impressed.

But bodies change and journeys bend,

and no one knows where roads will end.

So if you ask what I would choose,

with everything to gain or lose,

I’d choose the hand that reached for mine,

the eyes that make me lose track of time.

I’d choose the man who makes enough

of quiet days and simple stuff.

The one who makes the silence known

as something richer than I’ve known.

So yes, the contest may be small.

One Slovak entered. That is all.

But even if there were a million more,

I know exactly who I’d choose for sure.

My favorite Slovak, my Martin, you.

Ľúbim ťa.