For Titrit

Onto vaporous hands meddling in rust

Warda tells me her name means erasure

And although she sits lower at the table

She is the one who sees history in my face

A jagged non-hallway plays by a good host

Sweeps mythology under whispers of hello

We are tethered to a coolness compromised

The floor ( she ) brought us midst urgency

I can spare the girl a raw forth in matrimony

The fassis through my father claim more than

Granted, In conquest starting from the burnt

Ends of my hair, all but plucking their way up to

Ifrane, only to forget Moulay Ismail believed

In a whole ruler to face the modern world ( himself )

Whether a person is a country has little to do

With grooming, let bread be torn if it’s meant

To Warda, how do your retinas hold the gasping

Rays still, while I no longer feel my legs so firmly

Wrapped around the shoehead mount, painted

In place above the sedari, yet growing apart in

My pink basket, I gave up on conversation when

You told me my name doesn’t match my face

What are you looking for?