cry, the way a mother cradling her son as he sets out on death’s road
laments
the way a wife slapped by her drunken beast of a husband
howls
the way a disheveled girl repulsed by a lecher’s probing tongue
shrieks
the way Amena, sweaty and distraught, hands blood-spattered from breaking
bricks
wails
the spring tide rises, an owl’s hoot fades in the depth of night
sandalwood glows on the pyre, clouds swallow the full moon of Asharh,

* * *

scraps of iron are hammered flat over a red-hot
fire
kindled by fire-mantras, pyres burn down to ash
our primeval mother
is stretched over dead coals, flowing hair and flesh
consumed
a million fire-needles stitch through trailing saris
through gutters
through blind alleys in the burnt-out sockets of the constellations,

* * *

Padma, Meghna, and Mayurakkhi toy with fate
tossing dice
a cunning princess shakes loose her thick plaited
hair
tossing a seductive noose around every neck
her lips scorch with curse-kisses of molten lava
tongues lap blood from poisoned manholes
in corpse-choked witches’ cauldrons water boils
flesh
bloodied sweat and powdered mud smear the age-old future,

* * *

the nameless past slips away on the ebb tide
barely awake
mudflat homes are swallowed by the water sorcerer
the blaring
fanfare of progress carries silt, quicksand
seven hundred thousand
acres of soil and seed, water and wind, clouds and rain
torrents gobble up everything in one gulp, cackling and shrieking like witches
rabid, ravenous for meal of human heads
tasty
female flesh, especially breasts and succulent thigh bones
stinking
bits stuck to dribbling lips—such morbid
melas
happen only once in a long while, when there’s enough demand or
cash
pay it off fast, reduce the debt to
zero
until the new-rice festival, the last day of the month
or the market fair,

* * *

hopeless sighs
in the crush of the marketplace someone’s shaking a rattle—cheap nose rings
shiny baubles in rainbow colors
baskets of bangles on display, a pair of performing snakes
sly snake charmers, no saviors among them—as the world comes to an end
salvation is a matter of trading in flesh—or humankind
make-believe do-gooders masquerade
smugly
exploiting beggar women, muttering the mantra: principal and interest
ay
a Vaishnavite, sacred marks on her forehead, abandoned her village long ago
today
a beggar’s bag in one hand and the remnants of modesty in the other
clutching
her flapping anchal over her drooping breasts
teeth
flash in a tangle of vines, brambles, and creepers
a snake,

* * *

rheum
ruined eyes, ten fingers ripe with leprous
ulcers
sewers like dormant volcanoes brimful with lava, putrid with 10,000 years of
shit
squealing
bawling of a pig or a scrawny old ox, throat cut
wages
for digging ditches all day: a handful of rice—the foreman puffs on a biri
at night
he seeks Rahima’s shack and sucks ambrosia from her battered breasts
heaven
will be dammed off from hell, heaven on one side
an eternal
cauldron of fire on the other
mudslides
shatter every last rib across boundless fields or
inBagdi
slums, in marshes, swamps—with the piercing call to morning prayer Rahima’s
eyes
open wide—back and forth an old turtle shell
rocks,

* * *

no
more cheap rides across the river, walk straight
ahead
knock at the doors of hell
if
they don’t open, push hard
use your lathi, cry and cry face in your hands till you’re
gasping with grief, let loose torrents of tears
fire
heaven and hell are burning, water woven with flames
and so
heaven will be dammed off from hell
behold
you’ll be raped—Pandava warriors break through the
barricades
the head Kauravas have fled to the forest, spears and axes over their
shoulders
they’ve run away—Krishna’s words of encouragement, love’s plaintive appeal
an enticing crown
a seductive flute’s plangent melody—trying to keep
time
is absurd—now there’s nothing but buying and selling, rice and dal
paying in cash is all that matters
Pandavas and Kauravas alike reach for their wallets,

* * *

cry Bangladesh, cry
raise the flag, who knows
how far away good times may be
though launched
the peacock boat is stuck in the
mud
optimism is a liar’s game—the vermilion in your part is crumbling
now the rivers cry too
keep on crying, turn to ashes
rip off the veil of centuries, learn to stand on two
feet
let the water sorcerer’s curse be purged by fire.

Jahangirnagar, Savar, 1989

Published in Parabaas January 2016