Family Tree

Nour Berkane, Algeria

Being a wall assigned to this house sits 

                             somewhere between calm & calamity.

The flies are back but you pay them no mind 

                             this time. You let them lick their mouths 

away at the spilled dinner & flee to a coma,

                             awaiting the old man’s next batch 

of generosity. You still like a cemented soldier,

                             guarding corners of the house into

straight lines, bracing for gusts & man bursts.

                             Pots & pans rattle with the fiery lilt 

of the old man’s tongue, chipped cabin doors

                             pry open like a hungry thorax, 

& you watch still. ‘One frail kiddo body with a mind 

                             for a brood of ten.’ He says.

Two pairs of eyes unclip at the center, trepidation

                             runs like wildfire in this house.

Apologetic tangerine skinned & sprawled 

                             on cracked ceramic coasters couldn’t 

equate to the wrath of the daughter. It grows

                             tall into a tree, marches ahead after

each winter solstice, claws & clings

                             to the perseverance & battle of light.                              

All a mother could do is slip into her pearly

                             night gown & ensure the eventuality 

of a fire dying down, burn incense & pray 

                             omens away, then guard the frontlines 

for the next blow. A mother could have been, 

                             a daughter must never be. 

To disappear is to grow giant, to lay

                             incoming floods to rest is to press

the faucet lever & wait for drought.

                             The old man holds a cigarette to his lips

after every bump in his shoes, picks up 

                             trash & heads out with a blow, & you fight 

the cracks in your cemented body.

                             Being a wall assigned to this house sits 

somewhere between calm & calamity. 

                             The trash bag accommodates tangerine peels, 

several unprescribed pills, expired milk cartons,

                             wooden carcass from two dinners ago, 

20 Marlboro red cigarette butts, a 70s fashion

                             catalogue soggy with window cleaners, 

yesterday’s grocery list scrabbled on scraps 

                             of school paper, & the sugary flypaper 

pinpricked by

                             a lifeless family tree.

Nour Berkane (she/her) is a 20 year old writer and medical student. Her work has been published in the BTL anthology in 2020. Outside of writing, Nour can be found twisting her hands in yarn in the company of her cat, or occasionally swallowed up in her mind.