day one.

dear M.

dear M,
your name-
it does the craziest things to my body,
every syllable reminding me
of a time where-
i left the cover up at the door,
exposed myself to the world
because i felt i was special.

your fingers would
fill the spaces between mine,
i never knew before i was whole
that i was empty;
now the emptiness
is leaving me with nothing.

i'm longing to overflow
with something worth it.
i am worth it,
you whispered into the air
and all i felt was
your breath rushing into my lungs
and i felt inflated with love.

you gave me a reason
to appreciate the sun,
you warmed the tundra
that was my blood-
this liquid
chorusing through my insides
is foreign to me.

thoughts i never thought
i could tell another
tumbled out of me like the curls in
a bun-
when we'd lie in bed and you listened
to every thought i thought i'd ever know.

do you know i could never swim
until i drowned in your waters.

29 day challenge :)

29 poems, 29 days.
every single day till June 29.

these words are my heart.

black & blue

nobody told her that black
and blue aren't only the colors
that envelope the stars and
mogadishu's sea that they can
be imprinted onto her skin
like the droplets that splatter
onto the canvas in a shaby loft
in brooklyn.

momma's plea

kissing lullabies into the
milk scented neck of my
baby leaving the wetness
of love on her skin praying
her innocence won't ever 
leave her and the world
won't become my womb
and swallow her whole.

what i am.

it is palestine not israel a
land cannot be stripped of 
its harvest in a day falesteen
is alive on the tongues of
those whose souls weep 
passion they are fighting
for homes where the spirits
of loved ones hover never
say they are murderers it
is you who shed innocent
blood.


and wallahi ogadenia
will one day be free
and my children's bare
feet will touch the soil
that my father's father's
father's walked on and
they will breathe in the
air i never got to breathe
taking in their ancestors
east african glory down
their lungs.

qabil isn't as bad as you
think it is beautiful imagine
being able to count your
history with henna covered
fingertips what a honor an
honor has been mutilated to
become an evil my uncle was
killed because he was darood
RIP i never got to meet you.

one wrong person doesn't 
represent a whole you don't
blame christianity for oklahoma
or the kkk islam is of peace we
do not condone the errors
of a few misguided men
religion is of belief in a
higher being last time i 
checked He isn't Man read my 
book before you assume you know 
the word of the god i pray to 5 times a day 
every single day.

i don a hijab whenever 
i go out who would've ever
thought a tiny piece of cloth
could cause so much controversy
let me the clear the air no
it is not hot under there and yes
i do have hair and no my father
didn't force me to cover i did 
it because i am worth more
than my bra size and whether
or not i have an ass in those jeans
and so i can be loved by the depths
my eyes take you to respected for  
my intelligence and for Allah always
for Allah.


there is poetry
and there is God
both have the power
to move
people.


my mother gave birth to
a crying baby with big brown eyes
in the cradle of your arms you breast 
fed her poetry gushing out of her
soul in midnight black harnessing
the poetry that she maps out like
stars onto his back.

saturday night freewrite.

i was taught to fear every
waking moment mogadishu changed
over night it's full moon was
broken it's rays only sent
half beams to unlit homes
that craved the light.

hoyoo breathed poetry into
the ears of her new born baby
tried to replace the sounds of screams and ak47's
with allah.

say wallahi you never knew that
he loved her pointed out every eyelash
that framed her brown eyes mapped out constellations
on the back of her thighs whispered cities that
they would one day visit into her ears.

a boy has witnessed his father being killed
in the name of qabil why have you made him god
he yelled out to africa's heat his skin is burning
with hatred alone and angry he hides the tears that
fall for boys aren't meant to cry.

i was taught to cherish the cloth that drapes
my body it's silk the color of las canood's
sunset when it adans for maghrib the quran
with it's complete perfection hear it be read
into the souls of men pray for rain to water
the dead bury the bodies that litter these streets.

and say wallahi you never knew that he asked
her to marry him even after the doctor said
it was cancer after the surgery when they cut
off her breasts she cried and trembled thinking
she would never be beautiful be whole again he
held the place they once were in his hands and
said macanto they feel the same.

the tides knock the wind right
out of your being ayeeyo invited
you over for asr she insisted you
make her favorite tea cousin liban
is getting married he will finally
have the kids he always wanted to father
in the distance, i hear a daughter
scream.

on this couch remote in hand
in the tv there's a war going on.

glass.

mariam drops the glass
hears it crash onto the
floor break like the bones
in her ribcage when ali beat her
shards a million pieces
glistening as the light hits
it broken but surviving 
broken but trying broken
but won't break anymore
a million pieces litter mariam's
kitchen floor she picks them up
delicately and pulls out the
glue glues them unshattered
she shakes and prays she can
mariam wishes she had
someone who could glue
her broken insides
whole.

he undresses her.

he stares at her shamelessly
let his eyes trail down places
only her mirror after showers got to see
and even then
it was in dim light.

he talks to her and he listens
and he cares about her dreams
her ambitions how her teddy
is purple how she loves the cold.

he calls her beautiful she forgot
the last time she heard those words
said to her and not whispered into the
ears of the girl in the seat next to her
or behind her or in front of her
always someone else.

she thinks she's in love addicted
to a drug that brings a smile to her eyes
a longing in her veins he numbs the pain
and she falls deeper into an addiction of compliments
traced with fingertips down her skin.

he finally has her in his hold
his tight hold no force can pry
the grip he has on her soul
their bodies are molded into one
his lips tastes hers devours hers
leaves her gasping for breath
screaming out his name in the darkness.

afterwards he wipes away their sweat
mutters goodbye into the pillow she 
withers in the bed moaning no instead
of yes afterwards on the bus ride home
he plans out his next conquest.

naked dripping water staring at her
reflection she wonders whether she will
ever be beautiful.

untitled.

he told her he could marry her soul

eyes closed she traced the tendons in his

arms and thought of how safe she feels

when they are around her.

friday night freewrite.

one
lips painted red painting
bloodshed on a canvas of white skin as
black as the darkness lovers explore each
others bodies in colors separate humans
the wall in palestine cannot be crossed
i thought humanity had no color?


two
throwing up the contents of
an unfinished meal in the bathroom measuring her thighs
between her palms magazine
cutouts taping her breasts
hair doused with straightening
products sixteen years old
in a car with a twenty year old
man lips raw skin wet she 
thinks he could make her finally feel beautiful.

three
torn pages in a notebook
kissed with words spiraling 
out of control is her being
in need of feeling anything
but the hate her pen is spewing
ink is blue like her mother's 
face when father choked her
in need of love the womb and it's
protection from the ugliness of the world
miss its warmth pray for love.
 
four
there is no hope in hope lost Allah the Most Gracious 
Most Merciful goodness at the tip of his tongue in the
depths of his soul goodness in the way he holds
his little girls hand goodness despite the evil
his daughter is growing older her innocence is 
being stolen but there is goodness left in
graffitied alleys and subway corners he
whispers to the city "be good".

five

fingertips play notes on spinal cords

entangled in sheets his legs her arms making
laughter making words.

six

and a heart that stops beats to no drum dancing

cannot be done if there is no music rushing

in your ears faith rushing through your soul 

zamzam water rushing down your throat

bringing you to life.

 

don't call me beautiful.

don't call me beautiful.
i know, i know, you think i am without a doubt in the world. you honestly believe that the twinkle of my eyes are like the glitter that lace the stars that shine at night. you hold me in your arms and stare at my body in awe, how the curve of my hips and the slope of my back fit perfectly in your arms. my lips and the way yours automatically tingle when you think of them, and the way my eyelashes curl when you're close enough to count each and every one.

but don't call me beautiful because i swear to you i'm not.
i'm a timebomb four seconds away from exploding and destroying and tainting. i'm a magnificent skyscraper burned to the ground, i'm the fallen.
i'm dark and twisted and you misread what you see in my eyes because what it is are the sins and the deception and the evil that grows in the marrow of my bones reflected in my irises for the world to beware and stand their ground.

i'm not constructed properly. in fact there's a couple pieces missing here and there. see i've been thrown onto walls and crushed underneath bare feet so many times that i'm broken beyond repair. scars tattoo my arms and legs and chest and my face has forgotten which muscles to use in order to smile.
and my words, oh my words.
they're aggressive and mean and cut like a knife on virgin skin. but my words are me. so don't call me beautiful, not yet. just read my words because i swear they're uncut diamonds, jagged and worthless but having the potential to become so much more.

maybe then we could be beautiful together.

somalia's daughter

somalia's daughter, lovemaking can be as dangerous as after nightfall in mogadishu. muezzin calls the adan, covers head with hijab, bows down and prays. brother kills brother, prays
in the same mosque, breathe
the same air, skin
same color, blood in veins shed on desert sands
from somalia.
 
and she wonders just how long this war will go on
of hatred fed in the plates of men growing in the bellies of bodies holding guns to heads of their brother. another
life hovers on a thread. knitted with a needle is the soul of a man. a father. a son. a nephew. dead.
woman tears, waters the land, tears cloth off dirac, and binds the wounds of her country as best she can.
 
machetes and sin in hand. slaughter. roads become a canvas and blood becomes the paint and screams become the horns that once beeped in traffic there. fathers are slain, failed to protect families they thought they could but didn't. could-should-have done. no, too late. drawn line across neck like an animal. is that what we are then, animals?
women are taken, raped, violated, body no longer sanctuary but a tainted home set to burn. the ashes are of no worth and she is taken and she is raped and she is broken. children, little. big on dreams, hopes, innocence, belief, smiles. thrown onto walls. ball against a bat, shatter. skulls, shatter. little spines crack and big eyes roll back, into heads that could have made a difference someday.
 
this is 1991.
 
somalia's daughter, it has been 20 years and your daughter is an american.
born and raised on american soil she is now in high school. getting older, culture and the media working together to numb her to the world. of evil.
of monsters with human faces killing monsters in human form, of evil. of inhumanity, of suffering, of pointless death for pointless reasons of one less finger to point. of being african of africa's struggle of the color of her skin of the islam in her bones.
america's daughter, see what's hoyoo's seen.
the souq with a million colors of gambasaro, diraco, masro, draped onto stands smelling faintly of cunsi and camel milk. scalding hot tea and halwa for asr.
hamar
hargeisa
garoowe
bosaso
las canood
people milling in and out of crowds speaking one tongue. different voices different accents coming out of different mouths remaining one. the white, looming mosque and the sea. waves licking the shore. banana's, mango's, trees, the sea. blue, and the sky, and the moon with stars shining so bright it lights up the whole city.
 
quickly, the footsteps and chatter of reerke. family, family, everyone was family. before walls were set up and boundaries were drawn and a family was split. like the cracks in the earth when an earthquake quakes. we were shaken and we fell and we never got up.
rebuild. restore. recreate our home from scratch so that my daughter can go back and be
amongst her people hear her language eat her food wear her clothes breathe in her culture return to her land i pray in the same mosque as my brother as the muezzin calls, brother, do not kill your brother. please.
 
i hope you wear a smile
and have a poem in your heart
a song on your lips
and i hope.
 
somalia's daughter, poem is supposed to be about woman. it is woman, poor, who will have to bury her own and deal with grief alone. clean the gash, dress the wound. lose, everything.
lovemaking and making love and wiping away evil's semen from the inside of her thighs.
hope. pray. hope. [contract]. pray. hope. [relax].
 
somalia's daughter, come home.