Shokry Eldaly - Four Poems




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.