Your eyes —
the colour brown
they are not,


Chocolate melted
in the sun
that became a pool
from the deep
heat of our land.

Coffee burnt lovingly
at the bottom of a pot —

Because when your
eyes pull mine,

I smell home.

The walls of the prayer room
in a hospital
are bulletproof and soundproof.

Or maybe—
it is all prayer rooms.

When the doors close,
the rest of the world
ceases to exist.

But I think—
it may be
the women’s
prayer room.

God built the rooms
separate—
for me to pour
my heart to Him,


and for them
to lift the pieces
shattered
by the outer world.

Hello Mr Calm, gentle and kind


You said I filtered myself —
so here is a poem.

Made special for you.
No need for a cipher.

Please, no longer grace me with your presence.

Your absence?
Far more peaceful.

And that good guy act of yours?
Save it for the next damsel.

Maybe she’ll be
“Sudanese enough”
for you.

Mr. Good Guy —
that raised voice of yours?
Echoed
from the other end of the country.


Your disappearing act?
Was exactly what
my heart
craved.

So please,
don’t flatter yourself.
Or hide for my benefit.


A ghost
has no personality anyway.

Have I made it obvious?
Yes, whispers curiosity—
in the way you’ve searched his eyes,
in the way only his face
lights your face.
In the way only his voice
has ever sounded—
or dared to speak
the English language
and twist it into
the foreign language
of your mother tongue.