In Honor of the Somalian Refugees

Bola Bagti

Dadaab refugee camp, 2011

This poem I wrote several years during the 2011 Somalian refugee crisis. I post today in honor of the Somalian refugees and refugees everywhere. I also want to say “Thank you” to all of America’s sworn-in citizens. You add much that is good to our country.

I watch as my sister, wrapped in a white sheet,
is placed into the short rectangular hole
in the sand.
Father places her, gently,
khameez fluttering around his legs.

Flour and maize cannot heal a sick child—
she was four—Sarah
of the laughing eyes, Sarah of the smile—
too little, too late.
Flour and maize cannot heal a sick child.

Bola Bagti they call the name of this place
outside the camp.
It means carcass in your language, I think.
The dead cows, the bony cows, lie here and
storks roam among the bones.

Father lifts his eyes to Mecca—they say a prayer for her soul—
I am silent, a woman and a child.
Our mother is dead.
My sister lies in a hole in the sand—
they say a prayer for her soul.

Father’s skin, black and tight against his face,
forehead bulged and cheeks small.
Deka, he says, you are too thin. He lifts my face—
bone black head weighty and drooping—it is
in God’s hands, he says—fingers tremble.