Fuck borders, or things I wish I’d said to immigration before they deported me — Basma Osman

Extract from our new publication ‘Power.’

I’m not shaking because I’m scared.
I have crawled up mountains on these bumping hands and knees
So that the tremors of the earth have become my own
And these lips of mine that quiver so
They have been burned too many times by impatient desire
It is not out of fear that my eyes dart to and from

Evading your stare

Settling nowhere
They are thrilled by the chase

Dance with them and see
I am powered by these tiny movements, kinetic, potential
So go ahead and black me out
I glow in the dark.

I’m not shaking because I’m sick.
I have been bleeding this week, though nobody sees
There is a deep tectonic burning beneath these dragging feet and unsteady hands
The earth’s core and the moon’s pull draw these tremors from me
Making mountains and new beginnings
I keep it a secret but I know that you know.

I’m not shaking because I’m guilty.
Yes I grind my teeth sometimes
They are uneven, sucked and kissed by a mothertongue muted
She clicks and clacks in protest at my every word
Maybe this is why I sound off-key and wobbly
Speaking in a second language
(But I don’t have a first)
Maybe I am guilty

But if this is guilt it is not for you, not for you
I gift this guilt each summer to my aunties
If this is innocence it is not mine, but theirs (ours?)
It is the belly-gushing love that itches the throat

Profound nodding
Uncertain embraces
Laughter
Silence

Sweat
And tea on the Nile seven sugars sweet — Ease

These fingers are buzzing on grandmother’s biscuits and pre-diabetes
And if you can’t hear the music in these vibrations then maybe we are a different species
But I’m no wolf.

I’m not shaking because I’m weak.
There is a kind of tension in my feet from tiptoeing the lines that you draw, and redraw
But watch me tap tap dance on the point where our circles touch
My legs are thick and graceful
They jiggle but never slip
Know that everytime I bend, twist, split myself for you
My back gets stronger
I can carry myself and others on it
My arms, too
They have been busy cooking

Those burnt black bits
At the bottom of the melting pot
They are the tastiest
If cancerous

But scraping, scraping is hard and I am getting tired

So I shake
In power, in life, in love, and in growth I shake

That’s everything.