This is the river

Words by Ronia Ibrahim (she/her)

This is the river.

This is the river where we drink from // where we wash our clothes // where we cry.

This is the river that sounds like a flute at night, and a drum in the morning.

The river is loud and can only be heard at octaves arranged on pillars of blue.

When babies are born, we dip them into the water, let them kick their

toes against the cold rush so that they know what the world feels like.

This is the river where my dad used to play // where his dad used to play //

and his, and his. This is the river I became queen. I ruled here for centuries,

and everyone respected me. This is my kingdom.

This is where I let my imagination run wild, like a babe in the meadow,

no pants no nothing, just skin and the reeds. This is the soft and slicing //

the first blood // red like a symphony // that we watch from plush velvet

chairs and high balconies. This is the best seat in the house.

This is how it goes // round the village, under the bridge // the way it goes

the braiding: you and i and // you and them and // my mother // and her

mother // and hers, and hers. After all, this is the river. Run wild, baby-makers, rockets, and whispers, against all odds, against all grass, headfirst, toes second.

This is where we stop to admire the scenery, and think, this is the pain of being lucky, this is the reason why we’re here. They don’t get that we were made from

this river, they don’t get that this is what the world feels like. And when they told

us to go back to where we came from, we went to the river, and the river cloaked

us in the finest silk, sang us a song, and told us to make ourselves home.