by Halima Abukar

If you were a pair of hands, you wouldn’t know how to get food in your mouth. You would trip over your fingers in the journey, lose your footing in your nose, and rest on your eyelids. There would be a parade of clowns with trumpets, congregating at your expense. There would be ballerinas with ribbons wrapped around their ankles, whirling and baring their glossy teeth. Earrings would roll, seeking a pair of ears to poke. The festivities would conclude with a potato sack race and onion rings, spinning around toes and tongues, concluding with a spine, bowing for applause.

Halima Abukar is a Somali-American writer from Rochester, New York. Sometimes she writes about her parents, and other times she writes about the ways that streams and rivers that meander, don’t you see it in all it’s glory?  She fears that she will eternally be obsessed with poached eggs, penguins, A Long Petal of the Sea by Isabel Allende, and the pond near her house.