geography test
By Saaro Umar
the archivist enters the room
with a bag of oranges
she
broke one on the walk over
her shirt tucked under bra strings
of juice
draw down her chin
he
is sitting at the table when she enters
facing the open window that
exits to
a skyline
licked with fog a thick cover of
buildings hang from the clouds
she hasn’t yet learnt
to know words &
not their meaning
camera
spills
through the gaps in her teeth
lands within the hollow
that turns to plump
breast;
meeting place
her father walks to the kitchen sink
empties the steaming jug into terra-cotta bowl
steeps the dried khat
until it turns to tea
they say the leaf of God
conjures old ghosts
but he weathers the nightmares
for the memories
the children
marching in twos past
where he stood cutting leaf & cane
the eldest of twelve
first from his village to
enter university
swallowed the language
of three colonizers
afaan oromo he
kept
hidden in the secret of his cheeks
she thought
everything unknowable stayed
hallowed in transit
the crackle of scalded onions
& oil
her aunty covered in gold & satin
towering over gleaming blue
hands filled
with wood & metal
as the doctor
eased her knees open
back pressed against
white linen
imitation cotton
forced against her meat
she found
etched onto
ceiling
two mountains
estranged by
migrant ash white
like the dripped
seed of the poplar in spring
clotted between the
blackened roots
of Odaa Nabee
the sound of thunder
kindling the floodplain;
meeting place
he takes his seat
at the table
an old study desk from
the salvos reads like an atlas
scrunches a piece of green
places it in his mouth
rests his hands at the end of the counter
&
asks
where is your country?
she draws her
finger to the
middle of her chest
etching circles onto
skin
her tongue loops
the enclave of her cheeks
drawing rings
across flesh then slips
past the white threads
that drip from teeth
she gestures to the back of her
mouth her left palm remains
on breast
& says
in here
with a bag of oranges
she
broke one on the walk over
her shirt tucked under bra strings
of juice
draw down her chin
he
is sitting at the table when she enters
facing the open window that
exits to
a skyline
licked with fog a thick cover of
buildings hang from the clouds
she hasn’t yet learnt
to know words &
not their meaning
camera
spills
through the gaps in her teeth
lands within the hollow
that turns to plump
breast;
meeting place
her father walks to the kitchen sink
empties the steaming jug into terra-cotta bowl
steeps the dried khat
until it turns to tea
they say the leaf of God
conjures old ghosts
but he weathers the nightmares
for the memories
the children
marching in twos past
where he stood cutting leaf & cane
the eldest of twelve
first from his village to
enter university
swallowed the language
of three colonizers
afaan oromo he
kept
hidden in the secret of his cheeks
she thought
everything unknowable stayed
hallowed in transit
the crackle of scalded onions
& oil
her aunty covered in gold & satin
towering over gleaming blue
hands filled
with wood & metal
as the doctor
eased her knees open
back pressed against
white linen
imitation cotton
forced against her meat
she found
etched onto
ceiling
two mountains
estranged by
migrant ash white
like the dripped
seed of the poplar in spring
clotted between the
blackened roots
of Odaa Nabee
the sound of thunder
kindling the floodplain;
meeting place
he takes his seat
at the table
an old study desk from
the salvos reads like an atlas
scrunches a piece of green
places it in his mouth
rests his hands at the end of the counter
&
asks
where is your country?
she draws her
finger to the
middle of her chest
etching circles onto
skin
her tongue loops
the enclave of her cheeks
drawing rings
across flesh then slips
past the white threads
that drip from teeth
she gestures to the back of her
mouth her left palm remains
on breast
& says
in here
Source: Poetry (April 2019)