Bhopal: 25 years
The toxic seethes. Lip wound,
split bone and the blood brays
at noon. A tourist walks in, opens
his mouth. Like a snake swallowing frog,
he can devour history whole.
The children are patient as gods,
watching grey noise up red,
listening to metal innards clink
through the night, shrill kingdoms
of sound. They stitch gapes
opening in skin. Their hands are tidy
with practice. Down here, we’re not tested
for rot. The barometer
only measures what it must—
the length of memory, the depth
of forgetting. Watch for the stampeded step
at the entrance, the broken tooth
glinting in mud. These
are your souvenirs. Pack flesh
tightly in boxes. Face the click
without trembling. See,
here is your grin
turning to grimace.
Here is your face
filling the hole.
***
Because we are all Bhopali. Don’t forget.
December 11th, 2009 at 12:14 PM
That was great. All in verse, for bad or for worse. Brilliant.
December 16th, 2009 at 4:30 PM
@Shail: Thank you…
January 5th, 2010 at 1:46 PM
Missed this earlier. Very nice. The close is just extraordinary.
January 7th, 2010 at 2:58 PM
@Hari: Thank you. I was a bit iffy about it because socially engaged poetry can get preachy and I’m not sure this stays on the good side of that line.