Carlos Hiraldo

Photograph
(for Zuleika Hiraldo)

That fading world,
in black and white,
makes me look white.
My hair parted to the side
black, thick, and wavy
leaves my dumbo ears
exposed to the lens.
My gleaming eyes
look at the camera,
responding
to something said
as I'm caught
removing
my left thumb
from my smile.
My grey looking
red cardigan
matches my colorful
checkered pants
with hip bell bottoms
draped
over a pair of Keds
canvas sneakers.
Your oversized
navy uniform
jumps
from your Indian skin
and hovers over
your kiddy platform shoes.
Your left hand holds
my right forearm
making sure
I don't fall backwards
or holding me back
so I don't wander away.
Your black hair
is parted in half,
two, long side tails
reaching your shoulders.
You smile and look at me
as if to notice my response
to mom's admonition.

Ice Cream Man

You were the angry stranger
thrusting into our nights,
making us all feel tight,
like rope walkers around danger.

You cut my meals for me,
you fed me with tea spoons,
and made us wait for dessert,
until dinner digested to our feet.

Sister and I walked the long hall
back and forth to request your expertise,
the drunker you became, the stronger
and louder the "no!"

As we ate our melted strawberry cream,
mama's red face stared at the dark screen.
Did your slap serve as the good night kiss
she no longer missed?

Our Traps

The little girl plays her role
role-playing the little girl,
bow on head, pink dress, bare soles.
She smiles for sweets. The concrete
under her bare feet, bleeds
a dry grass. Her urban playpen
is fenced. I don’t trust the adults
observing her. Would my act of kindness
add another link to her fence?

Carlos Hiraldo earned his PhD in English literature from Stony Brook University. His book of poem Machu Picchu Me was published by Palamedes Publishing in 2016. He is currently an English professor living in New York City.