By Aisha Ali

In the morning,
The orange would peel, telling us when to pray.
Saylac’s salty floor splits open
My feet, reminding me of crushed mung beans
We used to eat.
So we created benches where
Everyone would sit.
For our feet will not touch that forsaken floor.
And in that morning, the roofs would
Defiantly transform into a dusty red,
Crushed roses.
So we shield them from the
Darkening orange.
For our roofs will not imagine the color
Red.
Saylac’s fish would go bad before guests came.
So we built fridges to freeze the food.
Man walk the street with
death fingers against their ribs.
Ammo-fed mouths, so they shot the sky imagining
It was an opposing tribe leaders
Skull.
But we left them that way.
Because there is no shield words have that their guns
Couldn’t tear.
For our children will now know the sound
Of that piercing boom.
When I shiver at my own
Forehead on the ground,
My Mother would cover me and place me against her heart.
Yet all I can imagine is it beats like a
Machine gun.
Yet all I can wonder is what color the sun
Used to be.

Aisha Ali is a student and writer from Minnesota, with origins in Mogadishu, Somalia, “the land of poets”. Her poetry explores memory, culture and resistance passed from generations. Her deeply opinionated and vivid poetry calls for change and development within Somali society and tells universal stories of the past.