Poets

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?