Another fat
cheeked child, eyes
blacker than a monsoon night and a mouth

already
pouting
with distinction. The grandmother

Sundera

smiles
her face turning
each day more spider-web-like.
She holds him

on the evening lane. Her daughter
Holika
the child’s mother
will arrive soon from the city. Night

falls rapidly now. Voices
echo throughout the village while a man

carrying vegetables in a plastic bag

walks rapidly downhill
past rickshaw drivers loitering
in the shadows by the paan shop
on Pipeline Rd.

Late afternoon / Feb. 10

Early morning heavy snow

Yard table in night snow . . . Another foot expected tonight/tomorrow.

I lift up
cancer by the armpits and turn it
toward its walker. Although

omnipotent, its body
is weak
as it pushes forward, wobbling

as it goes, miraculously
draining life from everything
it sees. Amazed

by cancer’s power to outlive
our grief, all those who have gathered
to study it

grow surly, knowing
it has left us
dead inside. Still

life continues. I lift up
cancer by the armpits and turn it
toward its walker. It keeps

going, on and on.

More than 2 ft. (about two-thirds of a meter) of snow fell Friday/Saturday.

The beak
of the bird in the jackfruit tree near the factory
points toward the hibiscus
by the gate.

Though the gate’s bars
the child, Aman, watches a girl throw
her yellow dupatta over her shoulder.
Although unable to describe it
the movement’s gracefulness makes him laugh.

Down the lane
the prostitute standing in her doorway
eats a mint leaf.
A friendly woman, she gives
her large eyes free of charge to the world
while 2 dogs walk past
side by side toward Pipeline Rd.

“Salaam Aleichem,” I say to Asma, fat
and recently divorced, as she
walks through the gate.

“Aleichem Salaam, Uncle,” she smiles
shyly back.

Allah observes all this from a distance, letting
the world evolve on its own.