my father has claws
where his mouth should be
an empty dessert for his heart
his eyes, the dead sea
his hands, crushing everything (his daughters) to dust
when he talks, the whole world shrinks
when he walks by, he demands everything around him to stop,
and bow down for him.
the women in my culture kiss his knees
and toes,
they wash his hands
they wash his hands so proudly and they sing
as if allah would bless them for doing so.
they wash his hands
the same hands that were once wrapped tightly around my neck.
i look up, i thank god i am nothing
like them
i understand; it's in his blood,
it's in theirs
i understand as i pour out mine.
and with every drip of red
i'm drifting furter and further away from him, from them

farewell, north africa.