Listen sir, they have released their unofficial guide
for how to spot the hot spot, but the signs of danger—
red, orange, or green—remain elusive.
He pushes his vegetable cart out from
his ghetto, sprinkles water on the
berries of tomatoes and spinach
leaves wrinkled by noon.
The noon is desolate but even if there
were men passing around
Nobody would give a shit about how
poor vendors wrinkle
under the heat of clementine scarfs.
How to teach them to distinguish between
spittle of disdain & life-giving beads of water on berries?
The qubbas will be preyed upon
And the fountains will be dug to excavate
In search of a history that never was.
Now children will learn about new vectors
who dress in white pajamas.
Nobody asks if they need medical attention
because they say parasites
aren’t worthy to be humane with
because the hair on their face flows like a rill.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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