& i don’t know how to tell you about
how emptiness can be holy if you never look down–
boys building a universe out of a deflated football
boys that would be kings that would be gods
boys that would be pulled out of their
mother’s bodies that would be pulled
out of rubble & what is rubble if you wear a crown
for long enough?
& i don’t know how to tell you about
when no one knew the ringing of a gun–
boys who never know how the bullet lodges itself
into their ribs like it’s trying to make a home in the malaise
between life and extinction. i hope that nobody has to know
what it is to be betrayed by a city that extorts blood
to gold. that nobody has to be left behind by a city
promising itself into a homeland
& i don’t know how to tell you about
the irony of sudan being on fertile land–
boys that will be brothers that will be fertilizer
boys grasping at the holy cradle of a lying mother
boys knowing that the swell of a womb is always spectral
& you run so fast that you fly you run so fast
you barely notice matriarchal teeth sinking into boy’s skin
& i need to tell you about how
you run so fast you barely notice the tender tongue of
rebirth licking its way into boy’s bodies until they
meld into each other & you can’t tell them apart past
blood on black bodies & blood on black bodies
& i can only ask you to see
the light & see the light & see
Isra Abdalla (she/her) is a second-year student pursuing an undergraduate degree in English Language and Literature. She is a Sudanese writer and a certified theatre kid (with a minor in theatre). Her work has been published in Partially Shy Magazine, Catheartic Magazine, Healthline Zine, and her university’s literary journal. More of her work can be found on fruitjam.substack.com.
