Grito

“A grito has to come
from the deepest parts of you,” Mikey said.

Then he threw back his head and let one out:
part laugh, part sob, part lightning crack.

Then the room burst open with sound:
a weeping into the pillow,
a funeral for her sister,
a car ride home in the rain,
a night they laughed until they choked on air.
Each voice a different shape of grief and joy.

Guitarrón

“Like this,” Mikey says,
bear-hugging the instrument,
like he’s holding a giant snapping turtle.
Belly-up, tickling its underside
right where the strings would be.

He plucks the strings,
then pulls his hand back,
like dodging a bite.
“Always pull your hand away,” he says.

He hands me the instrument:
unwieldy,
like carrying the massive turtle mid-wriggle.

I pluck, and feel it:
a resonant boom,
like an earthquake,
and I finally understand
how our dancers move to this:
I mean, quick shifts of the feet,
dodging cracks splitting
the earth right in front of them.

El Jalisciense

The time that Alejandro,
when the match set by the trumpets caught,
the flames started in his hands,
climbed into his mouth,
through his throat,
down his esophagus,
to his belly.

And the armonía section smiled,
when the violins spit out their pegs,
freeing the strings from the pegboxes
to wrap around Ale’s feet
and command him to dance.

The flames at his abdomen
moved down:
hips,
thighs,
knees,
calves,
inside
his
botas
to
his
feet.

And he set down his guitarrón
to dance.  





Shea Socrates (they/them) is a teacher and emerging writer. Their work has appeared in HAD, Passages North, Dishsoap Quarterly, Porcupine Literary, and JAKE. They live in Detroit with their partner Felicia and three pets, Vashti, Coney, and Vern.

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