The Father – The Feminist Wire

The Father


The hands of the clocks turn

until there are no hands anymore


The years unfold: work, work, work

the numbers on the paycheck

never match the hurt in his bones,

the money sent home,


The homes built in Pakistan,

abandoned, all the sons of his brothers

came here, to this god-forsaken —


All he wanted, Allah was to serve you

to bring his children up as Muslims

He’s failed.


Their tears don’t move him anymore

He doesn’t fall for their cunning

The child who played so easily

grew up to bring him harm:

daughters dressed like men

men who act like children

and he gets up and works


Without him this American home

would crumble, would fold

He looks away from his grandchildren

they are ticking bombs


He gets up and works, the time goes

the hands of the clocks turn and turn

until there are no hands anymore


Bushra Rehman