Mir Mahfuz Ali

We live on a council estate, my daughter and I.
Nine years old, but she looks much younger.
She has not yet learnt to read the minds
...

Every time I come to the kitchen
you invite me to bite into you
and eat the pulp of your existence.
...

Only this boy moves
between the runes of trees
on his tricycle
when an eagle swoops,
releases two arrows
from its silver wings, and melts
away faster than lightning.
Then a loud whistle
and a bang like dry thunder.
In a blink the boy sees
his house roof sink.
Feels his ears ripped off.
The blast puffs up a fawn smoke
bigger than a mountain cloud.
The slow begonias rattle
their scarlet like confetti.
Metal slashes
the trees and ricochets.
Wires and pipes snap
at the roots, quiver.
The whirling smoke packed
with bricks and cement,
chicken feathers and nigella seeds.
When the cloud begins
to settle on the ground,
the boy makes out buckled iron rods.
White soot descends
and he finds himself dressed
like an apprentice baker.
...

Our housemaid
is a tiny langur woman
with a lanky grey body.
Her face is round,
...

Deeba, did you know
I went to your room yesterday
looking for you?
...

A storm roared over the Bay of Bengal,
a raving bull charging with its horns.
It pounded through the long night
on our side of the planet
...

The wide-eyed boy,
holds a split star
in the black holes
of his eyes.
...

What's this?
I'm invited to a great feast?
But here I stand, lost
in the yard,
...

My son must think
I know about everything.
Sitting on my lap, he asks,
"Dad, why are roses red?"
...