Corners, by Enzo Silon Surin

My conversation with Enzo Silon Surin appeared in the The Rumpus in August. Here’s one of the poems from his book When My Body Was a Clinched Fist, out now from Black Lawrence Press.

Here’s a poem from the book.

Corners

Outside Papi’s Bodega, young boy in
summer’s native garb—white tank-top,

doorag’s a smooth blue crown garnishing
the stubbles of a week-old fade—regulates

a stereo knob while sitting shotgun
in a chromed-wheel Escalade—the ghost

of Tupac Shakur magnified in a subwoofer
like an opus—as long as

music’s kept all’s good where we come
from. If only a glare didn’t easily stumble—

if only manhood wasn’t tenured with black
powder in metal capsules, brown boys, free

to chase arcade mortality, wouldn’t have to
warily long for a ghetto’s heaven or if grief,

inherited each day they step into the a.m.,
would follow them into an afterlife.

But corners often treble the soul, a cold hope
in the fold & on Winthrop and Thorndale

the sidewalk pleats, stumbles a man in hooded sweatshirt
and blood-sodden jeans, fresh breaths

breaching his lungs—if only keeping eyes off
the karma and on the prize was what made this

world go ’round, it would be what was always
wanted—any landscape better than what’s here

—where on most nights, a native glare renders
a chamber empty as winter flower boxes.

From When My Body Was a Clinched Fist. Black Lawrence Press, 2020. Reprinted with permission from the poet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.