Weathers . . .

A storm : Outside

Dust trampled all day—

Rises

Dust: thrown and shifted

Aside
Below
Underneath—

Shoes
Heels
Peels
And pebbles

Now rises
Furiously
With vengeance accuracy

Dust: now covers

Tree-tops
Antennas
Atop the tallest skyscrapers

The crows

Now teary-eyed
look down dazed.

Dust: now punctures through eyes

All eyes-seeing and unseeing

Dust: bleeds dust

Dust: clings

Onto well-gelled hair
Onto confident beautiful faces.
Everyone who walks under the sun

Must now walk
Under a sun, screened with dust.

The dust: now rises

And there’s a storm outside

And her window
Is smothered with dust
Pale. Cold. Burning brown
And grey . . .
With a slight thread of red somewhere.

Her window shakes
And throbs and sings
And shivers and shudders.

There’s a storm outside.

He comes in soaked
Orders tea
She refuses.

The dust now rises
There’s a storm outside.

p.s. This poem was written after an ‘interaction’ with Urvashi Butalia. And then, there was a storm that evening. And then this happened. Also, feminism, still doesn’t make any sense to me.
SHAHWAR KIBRIA
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