By the night they haul the black canisters,
surreptitiously, stealthily they move
midst a moonless night with rabid dogs barking.
They say take care. “Take care?” yes, the death is
hot to handle, fragile; a leak may emit
unstable danger. “Take care?” yes, they will.
With care they will throw the toxic wastes
into the river flowing beside the place,
the factory, beside the barbwire fence.
Haul those poisons and dump them in the stream,
caring not to spill on their own yard.
They cannot see
the stream has changed
it is coming towards
their home=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
The tiny creek
is a play stream
she can hike her dress and cross it with grace.
Mom is following her chirping fledgling.
Soon another little puffy face girl joins,
a friend who does not pass ugly remarks
on her whiteness, on her chalky face,
colorless hair, body, fear of sun.
Other girls of course do call her whity;
their mothers whisper, “She’s albino.”
As if it does matter; spells misfortune.
She cringes to a corner with her
only friend who stutters; it is their world
circled by a replica of the creek
they cross on the road to the public school.
It takes a different shape once it rains.
© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar