Wednesday, June 3, 2020

He.


He.
Serpent with wings
Whose ‘purity’ contaminates my vision
I am blind and He
He is my sight.
He.
Coloniser
Does not sleepwalk through life
Does not lie on pillows of crushed velvet tears
These trees
A living witness
To the deafening silence
Of a culture eroded
A history maimed
Bodies unclaimed
He.
Oppressor
Still holds me close
Collapsing on my skin
Wrapped around my legs
Maligning my darkened body
Falling over my indigenous soul
His guilt carried on the arch of my back
His fingertips could almost taste me
He.
Is the crimson pool that bathes my ancestors
The injured tongue that imprisons my children
The pervasive eyes that cradle my mother
The superstitious mind that dethrones my legacy
He
Disavows, denies and disowns
This hollowed earth cannot hold his ego
Nor tame his tongue
Words cannot unteach his truth
His soliloquy is law
His privilege is might
He is blind
And now I,
I must be his sight.
Muna Abdi
© 2020


Saturday, February 8, 2020

Sweating Blood

Gabay is like a blood vessel ready for rupture.
A thrombosis of emotions breaking its incarnation.
I feel as though I’m going vomit the troubles out.
Sweet the struggles away.
But as the sky bleeds and the Maghrib prayer is called.
The sorrow and doubts.
The vengeance and temptations.
Deeply seasoned on the roast meat.
I consume. I drink. I swallow. I absorb.
I sleep.
My vessels get tighter.
My brain gets heavy.
My eyes roles back.
My arm drops.
This is my stroke of unresolved metaphors.
Unbalanced alliterations.
Sentences without a beginning and an end.
Loss of equilibrium to my letters for the dead.
Thickness of undefined words, my coronary arteries are vas-constricted.
I skip a beat.
Anomie, it wears it well.
But I sweat, sweat blood. Gallons of rhythms and notes.
Is this the life of Abwaan or Gabayad.

Samantar Gurey
Copyright © 2020