2 poems by Sara Elkamel

Our First Year

I watch her from our tenth-floor balcony every time we go out for a smoke.

It is tight but big enough for the two of us, our cups of tea.

She is always asleep, as immovable as the bed. Creased,

her thin blue gown matches the sheets.

If I shut one eye, I can fit her whole curved frame between my thumb and index.

I mime tossing her like a stone

into the river. Though there will be no need to visit her grave,

I want to spit into her eyes to cure her.

But I can’t see her eyes. Light begins to depart

the river earlier and slower. Lighting

another match, I spot nothing but waves

where her body had been. My blue neck leaks salt.

Did I toss her

into a new home with the river people, or is it that the future is an empty cup?

Two empty cups.

When, in the open sea of winter, I see her

sleeping again, a blanket over her mass like a second body, something

returns to me. But I have already lost it.

The Days Are Coming in Abundance

Outside, even the one-

eyed dog is braying

at god. Men are stripping

the trees. In yet another room

not designed for my body,

I am sleeping through

another winter heat-wave;

I am delivering

a litter of martyrs.

Who says the dead

do not dream?

The night goes

in every direction—

even backwards.

____________

Sara Elkamel holds an MA in arts journalism from Columbia University and an MFA in poetry from New York University. She is the author of the poetry chapbooks Field of No Justice (African Poetry Book Fund & Akashic Books, 2021) and Garden City (Beloit Poetry Journal, 2026).