by Sadiyah Bashir
I don’t know how to call a night, a night.
How to see a match and not erupt.
I want a softer mother.
I have to admit sometimes the fruit doesn’t fall… it is pushed.
My mama don’t like the poems where I mention her like this,
And will probably ask,
“Where is your father?”
And I’ll reply,
Just like his coming home every night of my life,
He will have to walk miles before he makes it to this poem.
Sadiyah Bashir is a freelance writer and poet. Her poetry has been
showcased on various media such as: Al-Jazeera, Apple, and UNICEF. Her
first self-published book entitled “Seven” explores trauma and triumph
through the lens of Black Muslim womanhood.