I scribble words on pages.
Not like my mothers painting history with their tongues,
Lips smoldering like embers, spitting fire as they speak.
Listing lineage from memory up to the Prophet’s pulse,
Dictating tribal tales while stirring a melting pot.
Female phenoms drumming beats to release Somali hips,
From the ecstasy and pain of maternal bliss.
Learning legacies from ladies,
As they sing to their babies.
Entertaining the masses with beauty and grace,
Discrete masters of households, humble wives to save face.
I scribble words on pages,
For on the page is where my strength lies,
Unrestricted and uncensored like my mother’s eyes.
Telling tales of truth like my ancestors of old,
Ink dripping with urgency for our story to be told.
Eyes sting from ash filled particles infiltrating our oxygen,
Shrill cries echo from infants longing to be home again,
Chaotic scenes from fictitious films converging with reality,
We live in a changed world with a duality in humanity.
Us and them,
Here and there,
Familiar and foreign,
Native and immigrant.
Divisions descend like days of old,
When laden ships emerged and slaves were sold,
When camps constricted faith with brutal persecution,
When walls fractured families for political conclusions.
Will we not learn from the lessons of time?
Will we allow our children to die?
Will we let our hearts wither until nothing remains?
Or will they beat strong, catalyzing hope in our veins?