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.