Itchy feet bound to newness 
perhaps water turning cold is the parable 
She has not yet learned to say out loud. 

C-a-t-ch-m-e-i-f-y-o-u-c-a-n 

C-o-m-e-w-i-t-h-m-e 

G-o-o-d-b-y-e 

Her cilia sound like promises 
Parched for an embrace she cannot name 
Soured by nouns and verbs 
Pained by lone paths that aren’t alone 

Breaths don’t need to be held together. 
But a faltering one calls into question 
A sisterhood link missing 

Misunderstanding hurts more than she can admit. 
Speaking up is a braised meet 
Her menu closed 
Your forks are loud. 

It’s midnight and the table is broken. 

She’s off to bed. 
She’d rather see the blue lights in her head 
Than the people she calls friends. 

For once may they turn glue 
And for twice may they replenish 
The space between hot water and hugs 

Somewhere else her arms grow long and winged 
Keeping away the memory of arid moments 
When hello and how are you weren’t enough. 

According to her own septic 
No one is allowed. 

Finding new ways to remember water. 
A flood encounter awaits. 

Let the gentle rain fall on your head. 
Let the gentle rain fall on our head.

Sundus Hassan Nooli is a Somali-American poet, writer, and podcaster. She's written articles for gal-dem & theGrio and has produced several podcasts ranging from Brown Girls Guide to Politics to Uncommon Ground with Van Jones. Currently she's the poetry editor for Oxford Public Philosophy and is studying poetry and creative writing at Brunel University London.