Of hope
I live on a land of clear air, the sky a vibrant lid, where storms drum their designs and winds bring dreams to land that bakes in sun, almost un-breathing, where heads in bodies herd politics, test wits like a cricket match on boxing day, determining it will die. I love my island, full of First Nations, rich in languages, nations that think through nature, circulate complex communications, make life accessible. My island where kindness is projected in a silent voice, blame in the base. My island where the sea vomits baggage of history, makes clear its foundations sit on an egg and its leaders are up to unfinished business.
My island. My island of hope. It is my notebook. It has eight years of me.
My home though… my home is on the horn, a treasure-filled land located in a place that has grifted for decades. Hot and cold is my horn, rivers run, the sea is clear, roads narrow and everything is moving. Home is my horn of hope, where food is a gesture of our being, dance the founder of our cells, peace on the horizon and its leaders up to unfinished business.
My horn. My horn of hope. It is Ayeyo’s bed, tuning to Sheekadi dhoof iyo dhaxal caashaq.
My horn and my island. Illusions?
In this eighth year my heart is divided by two, humanity is slowly sliced and my words are sewed under my tongue.
If only she could fly
She’d smile with the stars,
her eyes bleeding victory.
If only she could fly,
she’d break chains,
write her own laws
If only she could fly,
she’d free herself
of labels
notes of the past
screaming in her face
demanding their own rules
If she could fly,
she’d brush off the dust,
be her own captain.
My inner pandemic
Sometimes I sit with wonder
watching my life turning
into something new-
confused but hopeful.
Sometimes I feel the roots
of an inner pandemic burying
in me, making decisions that hurt,
are hard to digest.
Sometimes I want to be fair
with my feelings,
to colour my fear,
paint my hopes
but
I am captured
in a cave of isolation,
ashamed to dig down,
to face, to listen
to the interior voice.
My inner pandemic is designed
to dim being.
No way to showcase pride
No way to speak.
Thoughts wrestle
Lips are glued to each other.
I sit
and wonder
is it anxiety or injustice
that is burning me down?
This No Compass edition is supported by Multicultural Arts Victoria, as a part of the 2022 Ahead of the Curve Commissions.
