Sore from the clutches of an African burn
The firm twist of expectance
The rough hands of the bread winner sinking in
Palms battered in white and sweat
His father made mud cakes
He makes bread
Now it’s’ time I made pastries.
Elbows scratched by the edges of the doors
Nudged annoyingly by love
In the opposite direction
The response is in limbo
So the submission begins
Lies that even the spinner believes.
Poem By M. Manal