AMOR
It was only moments ago that she took off her chanclas
And I saw the tan lines across her unpainted toes.
Her skin blends well with the wet sand
It isn’t long before she’s dancing in her handkerchief dress
Side to side, she’s pretending it has frills,
Pretending it’s a dress we know we can’t afford.
And she dances so beautifully, elegantly
Never looking down, even on the uneven shore.
She’s sure of her step. And she smiles
It’s not the smile she does for pictures
It’s her real smile, the one where she shows her teeth.
I don’t know where I’ll get the money, and I know
It makes little sense for one to wear their nicest gowns
To the beach, but from where we stand, I have
Given nothing to her, she deserves more than me.
I will buy her a dress,
Will find and make sure it’s of the finest green fabric, and she
Will dance in the sand, my Amor, a budding flower,
In the nectar of the sweet and dripping sun.
CORAZONCITO
Please do not call me your Corazoncito
Because every time you do
I picture myself a heart,
Sitting in the corner of the tub
Watching the blood stream
Across the ceramic before pooling
And swirling down the depths of the drain
I picture myself in a classroom
As a heart at a desk, as a student
Who wants to declare
The most moving of sentiments,
But has no lips with which to speak,
With which to testify
I picture myself a heart,
Walking down the crowded lonely street
In a trench coat,
And no, I cannot tell you why
When I picture this I have legs and feet
But no arms, but I
Picture myself wanting to pick you flowers
That are nestled beneath a tree,
I see myself wanting to
Pluck them for you
Please don’t call me your Corazoncito
Because if you ever left me
That is all I’d be—
A faceless, armless, purposeless
Corazon left to ponder his own being.
WHEN THIS TRAIN COMES
When
this train comes crashing
It’s
okay cause I’ve got Je-sus
The
lights flicker
And
go dead
There’s
a woman reading the Psalms
We’re
under 100 million
Tons
of water, Under
100
hundred million gallons of the Hudson
The
lights have gone off
But
she’s still gripping her bible
In
both hands like it’ll be her phoenix
Like
it’ll point its nose upward
And
return her to daylight
She’s
reciting from memory
The
words, speaking it like a lullaby
I
swallow hard and attempt to listen
Through
one man’s coughing,
The
heavy breathing,
And
someone’s blaring headphones
I
hear cracking granite
MY COUNTRY'S ACHILLES / the first time I saw ethnic cleansing
they came in dressed
as officers whom we thought
were friends. And they dragged
her to the washroom and they
made her strip her blouse first
and I could see her exposed back
and these men became elated that
she wasn’t wearing a bra and they
began to grope themselves. They
slid their fingers in at the waist of her skirt
before pulling on it, before tearing
the light cloth and embroidered stitching,
to shreds. And they began to touch her
and hold her and violate her in ways
that were so much worse to hear than
see. And they took her and they held
her and they filled the tub with bleach and
these two giants who pretended to be angels
they tied a rope around her neck and they
stabbed her and slit her until they couldn’t
hear her breath and then to cover up the
evidence they dipped her in the bleach
and they let her body float a moment
and I could see the younger holding her
so that the liquid would seep in, I saw
him holding her ankle between his thumb and
his index. And I saw her ten years later walk
up to them, these same two demons,
her skin ghost white, and
she threw her leg up on a hydrant and
then she lifted her skirt and
exposed her ankle, and she
showed the world that
She was still Brown.
Shokry Eldaly is an Afro-Latino, Arab-American writer, a Hunter College graduate, a Goddard College MFA candidate, an Aquellos Fellow, recipient of the AALC's Naguib Mahfouz award, recipient of the Blanche Colton Williams Fellowship and a 2010 Pushcart nominee. Shokry's work has been translated into more than ten languages and published internationally in publications inclusive of Forge Journal, Neon, Domino, Fut'uro and The Acentos Review. Each of Shokry's poems featured in this issue have been previously published. Amor and Corazoncito were previously published in the March 2009 issue of The Acentos Review and When This Train Comes and My Country's Achillies/ the first time I saw ethnic cleansing were originally published in Neon #19. Shokry has read and performed his work abroad and is a staple of the New York City poetry scene. Shokry currently teaches and conducts workshops in Brooklyn, NY and Providence, RI.
AMOR
It was only moments ago that she took off her chanclas
And I saw the tan lines across her unpainted toes.
Her skin blends well with the wet sand
It isn’t long before she’s dancing in her handkerchief dress
Side to side, she’s pretending it has frills,
Pretending it’s a dress we know we can’t afford.
And she dances so beautifully, elegantly
Never looking down, even on the uneven shore.
She’s sure of her step. And she smiles
It’s not the smile she does for pictures
It’s her real smile, the one where she shows her teeth.
I don’t know where I’ll get the money, and I know
It makes little sense for one to wear their nicest gowns
To the beach, but from where we stand, I have
Given nothing to her, she deserves more than me.
I will buy her a dress,
Will find and make sure it’s of the finest green fabric, and she
Will dance in the sand, my Amor, a budding flower,
In the nectar of the sweet and dripping sun.
CORAZONCITO
Please do not call me your Corazoncito
Because every time you do
I picture myself a heart,
Sitting in the corner of the tub
Watching the blood stream
Across the ceramic before pooling
And swirling down the depths of the drain
I picture myself in a classroom
As a heart at a desk, as a student
Who wants to declare
The most moving of sentiments,
But has no lips with which to speak,
With which to testify
I picture myself a heart,
Walking down the crowded lonely street
In a trench coat,
And no, I cannot tell you why
When I picture this I have legs and feet
But no arms, but I
Picture myself wanting to pick you flowers
That are nestled beneath a tree,
I see myself wanting to
Pluck them for you
Please don’t call me your Corazoncito
Because if you ever left me
That is all I’d be—
A faceless, armless, purposeless
Corazon left to ponder his own being.
WHEN THIS TRAIN COMES
When
this train comes crashing
It’s
okay cause I’ve got Je-sus
The
lights flicker
And
go dead
There’s
a woman reading the Psalms
We’re
under 100 million
Tons
of water, Under
100
hundred million gallons of the Hudson
The
lights have gone off
But
she’s still gripping her bible
In
both hands like it’ll be her phoenix
Like
it’ll point its nose upward
And
return her to daylight
She’s
reciting from memory
The
words, speaking it like a lullaby
I
swallow hard and attempt to listen
Through
one man’s coughing,
The
heavy breathing,
And
someone’s blaring headphones
I hear cracking granite
MY COUNTRY'S ACHILLES / the first time I saw ethnic cleansing
they came in dressed
as officers whom we thought
were friends. And they dragged
her to the washroom and they
made her strip her blouse first
and I could see her exposed back
and these men became elated that
she wasn’t wearing a bra and they
began to grope themselves. They
slid their fingers in at the waist of her skirt
before pulling on it, before tearing
the light cloth and embroidered stitching,
to shreds. And they began to touch her
and hold her and violate her in ways
that were so much worse to hear than
see. And they took her and they held
her and they filled the tub with bleach and
these two giants who pretended to be angels
they tied a rope around her neck and they
stabbed her and slit her until they couldn’t
hear her breath and then to cover up the
evidence they dipped her in the bleach
and they let her body float a moment
and I could see the younger holding her
so that the liquid would seep in, I saw
him holding her ankle between his thumb and
his index. And I saw her ten years later walk
up to them, these same two demons,
her skin ghost white, and
she threw her leg up on a hydrant and
then she lifted her skirt and
exposed her ankle, and she
showed the world that
She was still Brown.
Shokry Eldaly is an Afro-Latino, Arab-American writer, a Hunter College graduate, a Goddard College MFA candidate, an Aquellos Fellow, recipient of the AALC's Naguib Mahfouz award, recipient of the Blanche Colton Williams Fellowship and a 2010 Pushcart nominee. Shokry's work has been translated into more than ten languages and published internationally in publications inclusive of Forge Journal, Neon, Domino, Fut'uro and The Acentos Review. Each of Shokry's poems featured in this issue have been previously published. Amor and Corazoncito were previously published in the March 2009 issue of The Acentos Review and When This Train Comes and My Country's Achillies/ the first time I saw ethnic cleansing were originally published in Neon #19. Shokry has read and performed his work abroad and is a staple of the New York City poetry scene. Shokry currently teaches and conducts workshops in Brooklyn, NY and Providence, RI.