All posts tagged: writing

Express Shipping

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“no one puts their children in a boatunless the water is safer than the land” after Warsan Shire somewhere between the north and south polethere’s a boundary between a calendar dayand the next–if crossed right may cross outthe ink of yesterday and maybe evenfor a moment I will cease to exist briefly I used to think to express isto exorcise until I emptied my tank tryingto drive [..] out of my system, or is itto filter, a memory as selective as a cataloguesort: emotion low to high somewhere between my navel and diaphragmstands a piece of string, stuck but plays the saddestlullabies to keep me from sleeping or forgettinghe says all of the things I have not healed frombecome my muses and I stand at the border not knowing which is which–see there’s thisline between my navel and diaphragm that onlyI can see but it darkens, becomes more visibleselect: next day delivery somewhere between […..] and [….]I lost myself–no one ever tells you how tocalculate or declare your value, whereto collect the pieces or replacewhat …

Azza mocks me for praying in onesies

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Azza exchanges the robes of freedomfor the silky toabs of comfort, swearsgossip travels farther than hadeethever could. no matter how many timesthey burn down cities to ashes tofuel islamophobia, the bond does not break.no matter how many times we offer ourchildren to the fire, the flames remain insatiable.our love letter to god never has any return address. deep in sujood, I am one with the earthalways returning to Allah, but never arrivingAzza swears customs are stronger thanbeliefs, no matter how many times I triedto split the two, the bond remained covalent.I am but a subatomic particlealways splitting, always dividing When fire broke out in Mecca, the Mutawaatraded his whip for a pair of binocularsthe school girls of 31 had no names, justlike all women the Arab boy donates twoRiyals for kiswa and feel entitled toclothe all women I wear Azza’s umbilical cord aroundmy waist, belt in all the dreams I lost in the firesometimes I am a small apartment city girlother times I fall from my island hammockto the countryside’s bungalow. Azza continues to burn …

Eyes At Half-Mast

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“Professor Okong stared on the tabletop with lowered eyes; like eyes at half- mast.” ~ Anthills of the Savannah, Chinua Achebe With his weary rising the purpose has almost been completed  Eyes at half-mast and salt and pepper strands  bear witness and testify to the being that will soon seep from a clay vessel soon pass into the void of the night  Milky eyes have begun to reflect a shroud  that no one else sees the stomach subserviently takes  the shape of a swollen gourd  and all the while the soul has been planted  roots as sturdy as ripened cassava  and heaves with the yellow fruit  of twenty thousand fervent prayers   from the last third of darkness Later this library will decompose and leave the sweet fragrance of a strange memory and an even stranger heart Soukeyna Osei-Bonsu is a poet and writer based in London. She is author of the chapbook “All The Birds Were Invited To A Feast In The Sky” and has been featured in the publication The Drinking Gourd.