The Eruption
By
MATTHEW SHENODA
PUBLISHED BY NORTHWESTERN
UNIVERSITY PRESS, FALL 2014,
COPYRIGHT BY MATTHEW SHENODA.
Excerpt from Tahrir Suite, Section 1
In the country of waiting
Time is the essence that threads
Modernity to antiquity
Shortly after sunrise Tekla descended
A ladder made of fallen palms
Down from the roof of his sleep
He entered the courtyard aside a mud wall
Eyes half shut to the saline air
He meditated on the sleek dust that cooled his feet
Gazed east at the sun coming over Lake Arun
Isis could not make out the shadows
Probed by her own remembrance
She made solace from the warmth of her blanket
Knew this day could not be like any other
They would reach the city in short order
Partake of the migration that was to come
They would greet their crossing
But first an eruption
All who gather know, you have to feel it to reveal it
Sudden in your own infancy
You realize the ground is something new
The protesters converging in a single place
Made a home of something old
Began the chants that transform night
If order can preserve us
We’ll indicate desire in every motion
Walk the same route on every morning
Hum the same song on every evening
8
The skies of this earth, a remnant
Foretold before its own story
Amorphous like squalor in the night
We are made to understand the cavernous heart