Two poems by Mohamed Elhassan
i am scrubbing blood for a boy i love[d]
cold silt sits beneath rugged nails,
bloodied & bitten.
draped over you, a sullen wear,
tattered & beaten; boy ravaged; boy lost.
on the floor, your soot-trails,
feet slapping against cold tile floors.
you rub your fingers in the space between your ears:
like that Ozric Tentacles song, bowled up, tense, hooked to open wounds: I unfurl your fingers for you.
you like to tease me sometimes & string together
random moments we’ve had into short stories:
we blared Cece Peniston’s “Finally” in your room
undressed as you searched for each place untouched,
removing the talisman of purity--
your hands, tea & blisters.
i could feel the inimitable heat from both our bodies;
dawned each other with our private veils,
ceiled the roofs of our mouths with tongues entwined.
we became dancers for an audience unseen--
i see you no more; become your fingers, silted, stilted, stolen.
i have hands clasped, raised to God, as i pray:
let him stay. ma’ picks at my hair & removes
seedlings sprouting whimsical nonsense ‘till i’m
underground: sludge-workings sucked into the bark of trees,
faceless propriety & legs dangling
from streetlights rustic & cold. boy empty; boy dead; boy un-thought.
i wash your bloodied cloth under warm water--
my decrepit fingers pick at the seams. as i inhale air from napalm skies,
i become memories of charred fingers & bedroom pop for a boy i love[d].
bloodied & bitten.
draped over you, a sullen wear,
tattered & beaten; boy ravaged; boy lost.
on the floor, your soot-trails,
feet slapping against cold tile floors.
you rub your fingers in the space between your ears:
like that Ozric Tentacles song, bowled up, tense, hooked to open wounds: I unfurl your fingers for you.
you like to tease me sometimes & string together
random moments we’ve had into short stories:
we blared Cece Peniston’s “Finally” in your room
undressed as you searched for each place untouched,
removing the talisman of purity--
your hands, tea & blisters.
i could feel the inimitable heat from both our bodies;
dawned each other with our private veils,
ceiled the roofs of our mouths with tongues entwined.
we became dancers for an audience unseen--
i see you no more; become your fingers, silted, stilted, stolen.
i have hands clasped, raised to God, as i pray:
let him stay. ma’ picks at my hair & removes
seedlings sprouting whimsical nonsense ‘till i’m
underground: sludge-workings sucked into the bark of trees,
faceless propriety & legs dangling
from streetlights rustic & cold. boy empty; boy dead; boy un-thought.
i wash your bloodied cloth under warm water--
my decrepit fingers pick at the seams. as i inhale air from napalm skies,
i become memories of charred fingers & bedroom pop for a boy i love[d].
Sudan in Three Parts
i. Precursor: Bedridden
He is footwork through gale: my grandfather draws in a crowd,
They say his peculiarity stems from his normalcy--
Greets each passerby with a wave: “Ahlan”.
Closes his eyes & bows his head when the imam is on.
Stillness overrode whatever automaton present.
The air itself stood petrified
As Mama pushed the beds to the side.
ii. This is How I Know Him
His tongue pined: one, two, three;
A bird’s seepage; song unsung; broken records playing in broken rooms.
As Mama forces her fingers into my scalp, washes my hair,
I taste the resemblance between them.
I buy a juice-box from the neighboring marketplace,
He says it is unhealthy--
I drink it anyway.
When we sleep in the living room, on separate beds
He tells me his skin is snowstorms of the West,
I tell him my skin is dew on flowers:
Okay, you can keep it going.
& I cannot blame her. I hold it in, my lips
Pressed: a house of five hundred forty-three padlocks.
Soon the stillness moved to its next stage;
I hear wails & shrieks & Mama is over there
Head in palms—praying to God.
iii. You are only twelve-years-old when You See Death
He scolds me by rubbing his knuckles into my head,
& I tell him it hurts: the bruise’ll make you remember.
He sits outside & covers the ground with a prayer mat,
Blesses the soil, raises his chin to God,
Teaches me how fish eyes are torn out of their sockets.
The fishing site smelled of grandma’s lamb & yogurt stew:
I feel my tongue saturated with the taste of salted air.
He submerges his ankles & scoops a couple of fish in palms ravaged by gentleness.
I tell him to use a tool: this is how it was done growing up.
The fan is still going. I shut it off.
Mama lays beside his bed,
Asks for God’s mercy
As she bids him farewell.
I pray with Mama too--
Gale paused; waterworks from sockets empty.
He is footwork through gale: my grandfather draws in a crowd,
They say his peculiarity stems from his normalcy--
Greets each passerby with a wave: “Ahlan”.
Closes his eyes & bows his head when the imam is on.
Stillness overrode whatever automaton present.
The air itself stood petrified
As Mama pushed the beds to the side.
ii. This is How I Know Him
His tongue pined: one, two, three;
A bird’s seepage; song unsung; broken records playing in broken rooms.
As Mama forces her fingers into my scalp, washes my hair,
I taste the resemblance between them.
I buy a juice-box from the neighboring marketplace,
He says it is unhealthy--
I drink it anyway.
When we sleep in the living room, on separate beds
He tells me his skin is snowstorms of the West,
I tell him my skin is dew on flowers:
Okay, you can keep it going.
& I cannot blame her. I hold it in, my lips
Pressed: a house of five hundred forty-three padlocks.
Soon the stillness moved to its next stage;
I hear wails & shrieks & Mama is over there
Head in palms—praying to God.
iii. You are only twelve-years-old when You See Death
He scolds me by rubbing his knuckles into my head,
& I tell him it hurts: the bruise’ll make you remember.
He sits outside & covers the ground with a prayer mat,
Blesses the soil, raises his chin to God,
Teaches me how fish eyes are torn out of their sockets.
The fishing site smelled of grandma’s lamb & yogurt stew:
I feel my tongue saturated with the taste of salted air.
He submerges his ankles & scoops a couple of fish in palms ravaged by gentleness.
I tell him to use a tool: this is how it was done growing up.
The fan is still going. I shut it off.
Mama lays beside his bed,
Asks for God’s mercy
As she bids him farewell.
I pray with Mama too--
Gale paused; waterworks from sockets empty.
Mohamed Elhassan is a senior at Hammond High School in Columbia, Maryland. His work mainly incorporates his personal experiences and 'yet to be' adventures. His work can be found in Right Hand Pointing, The Mantle, Eunoia Review, Open Minds Quarterly, and more. During his free time, he likes to doodle endlessly.
Prachi Valechha is a freelance cartoonist and animator from India. Valechha loves to make Toons and Toons for Tunes.
You can find more of their work at: instagram.com/rainbowteeth
You can find more of their work at: instagram.com/rainbowteeth